LIBRARY 

University  of 

California 

Irvine 


ANSC 
ANITA  BLAKE 


PS 


BOOKS  AND  MEN 


BY 


AGNES   REPPLIER 


BOSTON    AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
press,  €amliri&0e 
1899 


Copyright,  1888, 
BT  AGNES  REPPLIER. 

All  rights  reserved. 


ELEVENTH    IMPRESSION 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A, 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHILDREN,  PAST  AND  PRESENT 1 

ON  THE  BENEFITS  OF  SUPERSTITION 33 

WHAT  CHILDREN  READ 64 

THE  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT 94 

CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM 125 

SOME  ASPECTS  OF  PESSIMISM 157 

THE  CAVALIER 191 


BOOKS  AND  MEN. 


CHILDREN,   PAST  AND  PRESENT. 

As  a  result  of  the  modern  tendency  to  de 
sert  the  broad  beaten  roads  of  history  for  the 
bridle-paths  of  biography  and  memoir,  we  find 
a  great  many  side  lights  thrown  upon  matters 
that  the  historian  was  wont  to  treat  as  alto 
gether  beneath  his  consideration.  It  is  by  their 
help  that  we  study  the  minute  changes  of  social 
life  that  little  by  little  alter  the  whole  aspect 
of  a  people,  and  it  is  by  their  help  that  we  look 
straight  into  the  ordinary  every-day  workings 
of  the  past,  and  measure  the  space  between  its 
existence  and  our  own.  When  we  read,  for 
instance,  of  Lady  Cathcart  being  kept  a  close 
prisoner  by  her  husband  for  over  twenty  years, 
we  look  with  some  complacency  on  the  roving 
wives  of  the  nineteenth  century.  When  we 
reflect  on  the  dismal  fate  of  Uriel  Freuden- 
berger,  condemned  by  the  Canton  of  Uri  to  be 


2  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

burnt  alive  in  1760,  for  rashly  proclaiming  his 
disbelief  in  the  legend  of  William  Tell's  apple, 
we  realize  the  inconveniences  attendant  on  a 
too  early  development  of  the  critical  faculty. 
We  listen  entranced  while  the  learned  pastor 
Dr.  Johann  Geiler  von  Keyersperg  gravely 
enlightens  his  congregation  as  to  the  nature 
and  properties  of  were-wolves ;  and  we  turn 
aside  to  see  the  half-starved  boys  at  West 
minster  boiling  their  own  batter  -  pudding  in 
a  stocking  foot,  or  to  hear  the  little  John 
Wesley  crying  softly  when  he  is  whipped,  not 
being  permitted  even  then  the  luxury  of  a 
hearty  bellow. 

Perhaps  the  last  incident  will  strike  us  as 
the  most  pathetic  of  all,  this  being  essentially 
the  children's  age.  Women,  workmen,  and 
skeptics  all  have  reason  enough  to  be  grate 
ful  they  were  not  born  a  few  generations  ear 
lier;  but  the  children  of  to-day  are  favored 
beyond  their  knowledge,  and  certainly  far 
beyond  their  deserts.  Compare  the  modern 
schoolboy  with  any  of  his  ill-fated  predeces 
sors,  from  the  days  of  Spartan  discipline  down 
to  our  grandfathers'  time.  Turn  from  the 
free-and-easy  school-girl  of  the  period  to  the 


CHILDREN,  PAST  AND  PRESENT.  3 

miseries  of  Mrs.  Sherwood's  youth,  with  its 
steel  collars,  its  backboards,  its  submissive 
silence  and  rigorous  decorum.  Think  of  the 
turbulent  and  uproarious  nurseries  we  all 
know,  and  then  go  back  in  spirit  to  that  severe 
and  occult  shrine  where  Mrs.  Wesley  ruled 
over  her  infant  brood  with  a  code  of  discipli 
nary  laws  as  awful  and  inviolable  as  those  of 
the  Medes  and  Persians.  Of  their  supreme 
efficacy  she  plainly  felt  no  doubts,  for  she  has 
left  them  carefully  written  down  for  the  bene 
fit  of  succeeding  generations,  though  we  fear 
that  few  mothers  of  to-day  would  be  tempted 
by  their  stringent  austerity.  They  are  to 
modern  nursery  rules  what  the  Blue  Laws  of 
Connecticut  are  to  our  more  languid  legisla 
tion.  Each  child  was  expected  and  required 
to  commemorate  its  fifth  birthday  by  learning 
the  entire  alphabet  by  heart.  To  insure  this 
all-important  matter,  the  whole  house  was  im 
pressively  set  in  order  the  day  before ;  every 
one's  task  was  assigned  to  him  ;  and  Mrs. 
Wesley,  issuing  strict  commands  that  no  one 
should  penetrate  into  the  sanctuary  while  the 
solemn  ordeal  was  in  process,  shut  herself  up 
for  six  hours  with  the  unhappy  morsel  of  a 


4  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

child,  and  unflinchingly  drove  the  letters  into 
its  bewildered  brain.  On  two  occasions  only 
was  she  unsuccessful.  "  Molly  and  Nancy," 
we  are  told,  failed  to  learn  in  the  given  time, 
and  their  mother  comforts  herself  for  their 
tardiness  by  reflecting  on  the  still  greater  in 
capacity  of  other  people's  bairns. 

"  When  the  will  of  a  child  is  totally  sub 
dued,  and  it  is  brought  to  revere  and  stand  in 
awe  of  its  parents,"  then,  and  then  only,  their 
rigid  judge  considers  that  some  little  inadver 
tences  and  follies  may  be  safely  passed  over. 
Nor  would  she  permit  one  of  them  to  "  be  chid 
or  beaten  twice  for  the  same  fault,"  —  a 
stately  assumption  of  justice  that  speaks  vol 
umes  for  the  iron-bound  code  by  which  they 
were  brought  into  subjection.  Most  children 
nowadays  are  sufficiently  amazed  if  a  tardy 
vengeance  overtake  them  once,  and  a  second 
penalty  for  the  same  offense  is  something  we 
should  hardly  deem  it  necessary  to  proscribe. 
Yet  nothing  is  more  evident  than  that  Mrs. 
Wesley  was  neither  a  cruel  nor  an  unloving 
mother.  It  is  plain  that  she  labored  hard  for 
her  little  flock,  and  had  their  welfare  and  hap 
piness  greatly  at  heart.  In  after  years  they 


CHILDREN,   PAST  AND  PRESENT.  5 

with  one  accord  honored  and  revered  her  mem 
ory.  Only  it  is  not  altogether  surprising  that 
her  husband,  whose  ministerial  functions  she 
occasionally  usurped,  should  have  thought  his 
wife  at  times  almost  too  able  a  ruler,  or  that 
her  more  famous  son  should  stand  forth  as  the 
great  champion  of  human  depravity.  He  too, 
some  forty  years  later,  promulgated  a  system 
of  education  as  unrelaxing  in  its  methods  as 
that  of  his  own  childhood.  In  his  model 
school  he  forbade  all  association  with  outside 
boys,  and  would  receive  no  child  unless  its  par 
ents  promised  not  to  take  it  away  for  even  a 
single  day,  until  removed  for  good.  Yet  after 
shutting  up  the  lads  in  this  hot-bed  of  pro 
priety,  and  carefully  guarding  them  from  every 
breath  of  evil,  he  ended  by  expelling  part  as 
incorrigible,  and  ruefully  admitting  that  the 
remainder  were  very  "  uncommonly  wicked." 

The  principle  of  solitary  training  for  a  child, 
in  order  to  shield  it  effectually  from  all  out 
side  influences,  found  other  and  vastly  differ 
ent  advocates.  It  is  the  key-note  of  Mr.  and 
Miss  Edgeworth's  Practical  Education,  a  book 
which  must  have  driven  over-careful  and  scru 
pulous  mothers  to  the  verge  of  desperation. 


6  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

In  it  they  are  solemnly  counseled  never  to  per 
mit  their  children  to  walk  or  talk  with  ser 
vants,  never  to  let  them  have  a  nursery  or  a 
school-room,  never  to  leave  them  alone  either 
with  each  other  or  with  strangers,  and  never 
to  allow  them  to  read  any  book  of  which  every 
sentence  has  not  been  previously  examined. 
In  the  matter  of  books,  it  is  indeed  almost 
impossible  to  satisfy  such  searching  critics. 
Even  Mrs.  Barbauld's  highly  correct  and 
righteous  little  volumes,  which  Lamb  has  an 
athematized  as  the  "  blights  and  blasts  of  all 
that  is  human,"  are  not  quite  harmless  in  their 
eyes.  Evil  lurks  behind  the  phrase  "  Charles 
wants  his  dinner,"  which  would  seem  to  imply 
that  Charles  must  have  whatever  he  desires ; 
while  to  say  flippantly,  "  The  sun  has  gone  to 
bed,"  is  to  incur  the  awful  odium  of  telling 
a  child  a  deliberate  untruth. 

In  Miss  Edgeworth's  own  stories  the  didactic 
purpose  is  only  veiled  by  the  sprightliness  of 
the  narrative  and  the  air  of  amusing  reality 
she  never  fails  to  impart.  Who  that  has  ever 
read  them  can  forget  Harry  and  Lucy  making 
up  their  own  little  beds  in  the  morning,  and 
knocking  down  the  unbaked  bricks  to  prove 


CHILDREN,   PAST  AND  PRESENT.  1 

that  they  were  soft ;  or  Rosamond  choosing 
between  the  famous  purple  jar  and  a  pair  of 
new  boots ;  or  Laura  forever  drawing  the  fur 
niture  in  perspective  ?  In  all  these  little  peo 
ple  say  and  do  there  is  conveyed  to  the  young 
reader  a  distinct  moral  lesson,  which  we  are 
by  no  means  inclined  to  reject,  when  we  turn 
to  the  other  writers  of  the  time  and  see  how 
much  worse  off  we  are.  Day,  in  Sandford 
and  Merton,  holds  up  for  our  edification  the 
dreariest  and  most  insufferable  of  pedagogues, 
and  advocates  a  mode  of  life  wholly  at  vari 
ance  with  the  instincts  and  habits  of  his  age. 
Miss  Sewell,  in  her  Principles  of  Education, 
sternly  warns  young  girls  against  the  sin  of 
chattering  with  each  other,  and  forbids  moth 
ers'  playing  with  their  children  as  a  piece  of 
frivolity  which  cannot  fail  to  weaken  the  dig 
nity  of  their  position. 

To  a  great  many  parents,  both  in  England 
and  in  France,  such  advice  would  have  been 
unnecessary.  Who,  for  instance,  can  imagine 
Lady  Balcarras,  with  whom  it  was  a  word  and 
a  blow  in  quick  succession,  stooping  to  any 
such  weakness ;  or  that  august  mother  of  Har 
riet  Martineau,  against  whom  her  daughter 


8  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

has  recorded  all  the  slights  and  severities  of 
her  youth  ?  Not  that  we  think  Miss  Martineau 
to  have  been  much  worse  off  than  other  chil 
dren  of  her  day ;  but  as  she  has  chosen  with 
signal  ill-taste  to  revenge  herself  upon  her  fam 
ily  in  her  autobiography,  we  have  at  least  a 
better  opportunity  of  knowing  all  about  it. 
"  To  one  person,"  she  writes,  "  I  was  indeed 
habitually  untruthful,  from  fear.  To  my 
mother  I  would  in  my  childhood  assert  or  deny 
anything  that  would  bring  me  through  most 
easily,"  —  a  confession  which,  to  say  the  least, 
reflects  as  little  to  her  own  credit  as  to  her 
parent's.  Had  Mrs.  Martineau  been  as  stern 
an  upholder  of  the  truth  as  was  Mrs.  Wesley, 
her  daughter  would  have  ventured  upon  very 
few  fabrications  in  her  presence.  When  she 
tells  us  gravely  how  often  she  meditated  sui 
cide  in  these  early  days,  we  are  fain  to  smile 
at  hearing  a  fancy  so  common  among  morbid 
and  imaginative  children  narrated  soberly  in 
middle  life,  as  though  it  were  a  unique  and 
horrible  experience.  No  one  endowed  by  na 
ture  with  so  copious  a  fund  of  self-sympathy 
could  ever  have  stood  in  need  of  much  pity 
from  the  outside  world. 


CHILDREN,  PAST  AND  PRESENT.  9 

But  for  real  and  uncompromising  severity 
towards  children  we  must  turn  to  France, 
where  for  years  the  traditions  of  decorum 
and  discipline  were  handed  down  in  noble 
families,  and  generations  of  boys  and  girls 
suffered  grievously  therefrom.  Trifling  faults 
were  magnified  into  grave  delinquencies,  and 
relentlessly  punished  as  such.  We  sometimes 
wonder  whether  the  youthful  Bertrand  du 
Guesclin  were  really  the  wicked  little  savage 
that  the  old  chroniclers  delight  in  painting, 
or  whether  his  rude  truculence  was  not  very 
much  like  that  of  naughty  and  neglected  boys 
the  world  over.  There  is,  after  all,  a  pathetic 
significance  in  those  lines  of  Cuvelier's  which 
describe  in  barbarous  French  the  lad's  remark 
able  and  unprepossessing  ugliness :  — 

"  II  n'ot  si  lait  de  Resnes  a  Disnant, 
Camus  estoit  et  noirs,  malostru  et  massant. 
Li  pere  et  la  mere  si  le  heoiant  tant, 
Que  souvent  en  leurs  cuers  aloient  desirant 
Que  fust  mors,  ou  noiey  en  une  eaue  corant." 

Perhaps,  if  he  had  been  less  flat-nosed  and 
swarthy,  his  better  qualities  might  have  shone 
forth  more  clearly  in  early  life,  and  it  would 
not  have  needed  the  predictions  of  a  magician 


10  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

or  the  keen-eyed  sympathy  of  a  nun  to  evolve 
the  future  Constable  of  France  out  of  such 
apparently  hopeless  material.  At  any  rate, 
tradition  generally  representing  him  either  as 
languishing  in  the  castle  dungeon,  or  exiled  to 
the  society  of  the  domestics,  it  is  plain  he  bore 
but  slight  resemblance  to  the  cherished  enfant 
terrible  who  is  his  legitimate  successor  to-day. 
Coming  down  to  more  modern  times,  we  are 
met  by  such  monuments  of  stately  severity  as 
Madame  Quinet  and  the  Marquise  de  Mont- 
mirail,  mother  of  that  fair  saint  Madame  de 
Rochefoucauld,  the  trials  of  whose  later  years 
were  ushered  in  by  a  childhood  of  unremitting 
harshness  and  restraint.  The  marquise  was 
incapable  of  any  faltering  or  weakness  where 
discipline  was  concerned.  If  carrots  were  re 
pulsive  to  her  little  daughter's  stomach,  then 
a  day  spent  in  seclusion,  with  a  plate  of  the 
obnoxious  vegetable  before  her,  was  the  surest 
method  of  proving  that  carrots  were  neverthe 
less  to  be  eaten.  When  Augustine  and  her 
sister  kissed  their  mother's  hand  each  morning, 
and  prepared  to  con  their  tasks  in  her  awful 
presence,  they  well  knew  that  not  the  small 
est  dereliction  would  be  passed  over  by  that 


CHILDREN,  PAST  AND  PRESENT.          11 

inexorable  judge.  Nor  might  they  aspire,  like 
Harriet  Martineau,  to  shield  themselves  be 
hind  the  barrier  of  a  lie.  When  from  Augus 
tine's  little  lips  came  faltering  some  childish 
evasion,  the  ten-year-old  sinner  was  hurried  as 
an  outcast  from  her  home,  and  sent  to  expiate 
her  crime  with  six  months'  merciful  seclusion 
in  a  convent.  "You  have  told  me  a  false 
hood,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  marquise,  with 
frigid  accuracy;  "and  you  must  prepare  to 
leave  my  house  upon  the  spot." 

Faults  of  breeding  were  quite  as  offensive  to 
this  grande  dame  as  faults  of  temper.  The  fear 
of  her  pitiless  glance  filled  her  daughters  with 
timidity,  and  bred  in  them  a  mauvaise  honte, 
which  in  its  turn  aroused  her  deadliest  ire. 
Only  a  week  before  her  wedding-day  Madame 
de  Rochefoucauld  was  sent  ignominiously  to 
dine  at  a  side  table,  as  a  penance  for  the  awk 
wardness  of  her  curtsy ;  while  even  her  fast  - 
growing  beauty  became  but  a  fresh  source  of 
misfortune.  The  dressing  of  her  magnificent 
hair  occupied  two  long  hours  every  day,  and 
she  retained  all  her  life  a  most  distinct  and 
painful  recollection  of  her  sufferings  at  the 
hands  of  her  coiff'euse. 


12  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

To  turn  from  the  Marquis  de  Montmirail  to 
Madame  Quinet  is  to  see  the  picture  intensified. 
More  beautiful,  more  stately,  more  unswerving 
still,  her  faith  in  discipline  was  unbounded, 
and  her  practice  in  no  wise  inconsistent  with 
her  belief.  It  was  actually  one  of  the  institu 
tions  of  her  married  life  that  a  garde  de  mile 
should  pay  a  domiciliary  visit  twice  a  week  to 
chastise  the  three  children.  If  by  chance 
they  had  not  been  naughty,  then  the  punish 
ment  might  be  referred  to  the  acount  of  future 
transgressions,  —  an  arrangement  which,  while 
it  insured  justice  to  the  culprits,  can  hardly 
have  afforded  them  much  encouragement  to 
amend.  Her  son  Jerome,  who  ran  away  when 
a  mere  boy  to  enroll  with  the  volunteers  of '92, 
reproduced  in  later  years,  for  the  benefit  of 
his  own  household,  many  of  his  mother's  most 
striking  characteristics.  He  was  the  father  of 
Edgar  Quinet,  the  poet,  a  child  whose  preco 
cious  abilities  seem  never  to  have  awakened 
within  him  either  parental  affection  or  paren 
tal  pride.  Silent,  austere,  repellent,  he  offered 
no  caresses,  and  was  obeyed  with  timid  sub 
mission.  "  The  gaze  of  his  large  blue  eyes," 
says  Dowden,  "imposed  restraint  with  silent 


CHILDREN,   PAST  AND  PRESENT.  13 

authority.  His  mockery,  the  play  of  an  intel 
lect  unsympathetic  by  resolve  and  upon  prin 
ciple,  was  freezing  to  a  child ;  and  the  most 
distinct  consciousness  which  his  presence  pro 
duced  upon  the  boy  was  the  assurance  that  he, 
Edgar,  was  infallibly  about  to  do  something 
which  would  cause  displeasure."  That  this 
was  a  common  attitude  with  parents  in  the  old 
regime  may  be  inferred  from  Chateaubriand's 
statement  that  he  and  his  sister,  transformed 
into  statues  by  their  father's  presence,  recov 
ered  their  life  only  when  he  left  the  room ;  and 
by  the  assertion  of  Mirabeau  that  even  while 
at  school,  two  hundred  leagues  away  from  his 
father,  "  the  mere  thought  of  him  made  me 
dread  every  youthful  amusement  which  could 
be  followed  by  the  slightest  unfavorable  re 
sult." 

Yet  at  the  present  day  we  are  assured  by 
Mr.  Marshall  that  in  France  "  the  art  of 
spoiling  has  reached  a  development  which  is  un 
known  elsewhere,  and  maternal  affection  not 
infrequently  descends  to  folly  and  imbecility." 
But  then  the  clever  critic  of  French  Home  Life 
had  never  visited  America  when  he  wrote  those 
lines,  although  some  of  the  stories  he  tells 


14  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

would  do  credit  to  any  household  in  our  land. 
There  is  one  quite  delightful  account  of  a 
young  married  couple,  who,  being  invited  to  a 
dinner  party  of  twenty  people,  failed  to  make 
their  appearance  until  ten  o'clock,  when  they 
explained  urbanely  that  their  three-year-old 
daughter  would  not  permit  them  to  depart. 
Moreover,  being  a  child  of  great  character  and 
discrimination,  she  had  insisted  on  their  un 
dressing  and  going  to  bed  ;  to  which  reason 
able  request  they  had  rendered  a  prompt  com 
pliance,  rather  than  see  her  cry.  "  It  would 
have  been  monstrous,"  said  the  fond  mother, 
"  to  cause  her  pain  simply  for  our  pleasure ; 
so  I  begged  Henri  to  cease  his  efforts  to  per 
suade  her,  and  we  took  off  our  clothes  and 
went  to  bed.  As  soon  as  she  was  asleep  we 
got  up  again,  redressed,  and  here  we  are  with 
a  thousand  apologies  for  being  so  late." 

This  sounds  half  incredible ;  but  there  is 
a  touch  of  nature  in  the  mother's  happy  in 
difference  to  the  comfort  of  her  friends,  as  com 
pared  with  the  whims  of  her  offspring,  that 
closely  appeals  to  certain  past  experiences  of 
our  own.  It  is  all  very  well  for  an  English 
man  to  stare  aghast  at  such  a  reversal  of  the 


CHILDREN,  PAST  AND  PRESENT.  15 

laws  of  nature ;  we  Americans,  who  have  suf 
fered  and  held  our  peace,  can  afford  to  smile 
with  some  complacency  at  the  thought  of 
another  great  nation  bending  its  head  beneath 
the  iron  yoke. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  days  when  chil 
dren  were  the  ruled,  and  not  the  rulers,  we  find 
ourselves  face  to  face  with  the  great  question 
of  education.  How  smooth  and  easy  are  the 
paths  of  learning  made  now  for  the  little  feet 
that  tread  them !  How  rough  and  steep  they 
were  in  bygone  times,  watered  with  many 
tears,  and  not  without  a  line  of  victims,  whose 
weak  strength  failed  them  in  the  upward  strug 
gle  !  We  cannot  go  back  to  any  period  when 
school  life  was  not  fraught  with  miseries. 
Classic  writers  paint  in  grim  colors  the  harsh 
ness  of  the  pedagogues  who  ruled  in  Greece 
and  Rome.  Mediaeval  authors  tell  us  more 
than  enough  of  the  passionless  severity  that 
swayed  the  monastic  schools,  —  a  severity 
which  seems  to  have  been  the  result  of  an 
hereditary  tradition  rather  than  of  individual 
caprice,  and  which  seldom  interfered  with  the 
mutual  affection  that  existed  between  master 
and  scholar.  When  St.  Anselm,  the  future 


16  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

disciple  of  Lanfranc,  and  his  successor  in  the 
See  of  Canterbury,  begged  as  a  child  of  four 
to  be  sent  to  school,  his  mother,  Ermenberg, 
—  the  granddaughter  of  a  king,  and  the  kins 
woman  of  every  crowned  prince  in  Christen 
dom,  —  resisted  his  entreaties  as  long  as  she 
dared,  knowing  too  well  the  sufferings  in  store 
for  him.  A  few  years  later  she  was  forced  to 
yield,  and  these  same  sufferings  very  nearly 
cost  her  son  his  life. 

The  boy  was  both  studious  and  docile,  and 
his  teacher,  fully  recognizing  his  precocious 
talents,  determined  to  force  them  to  the  ut 
most.  In  order  that  so  active  a  mind  should 
not  for  a  moment  be  permitted  to  relax  its 
tension,  he  kept  the  little  scholar  a  ceaseless 
prisoner  at  his  desk.  Rest  and  recreation 
were  alike  denied  him,  while  the  utmost  rigors 
of  a  discipline,  of  which  we  can  form  no  ade 
quate  conception,  wrung  from  the  child's  over 
worked  brain  an  unflinching  attention  to  his 
tasks.  As  a  result  of  this  cruel  folly,  "  the 
brightest  star  of  the  eleventh  century  had  been 
well-nigh  quenched  in  its  rising."  1  Mind  and 
body  alike  yielded  beneath  the  strain ;  and 

1  Life  of  St.  Anselm,  Bishop  of  Canterbury.  By  Martin 
Rule. 


CHILDREN,   PAST  AND  PRESENT.  17 

Aiiselm,  a  broken-down  little  wreck,  was  re 
turned  to  his  mother's  hands,  to  be  slowly 
nursed  back  to  health  and  reason.  "  Ah,  me ! 
I  have  lost  my  child !  "  sighed  Ermenberg, 
when  she  found  that  not  all  that  he  had  suf 
fered  could  shake  the  boy's  determination  to 
return ;  and  the  mother  of  Guibert  de  Nogent 
must  have  echoed  the  sentiment  when  her  little 
son,  his  back  purple  with  stripes,  looked  her 
in  the  face,  and  answered  steadily  to  her  lam 
entations,  "  If  I  die  of  my  whippings,  I  still 
mean  to  be  whipped." 

The  step  from  the  monastic  schools  to  Eton 
and  Westminster  is  a  long  one,  but  the  gain 
not  so  apparent  at  first  sight  as  might  be  sup 
posed.  It  is  hard  for  the  luxurious  Etonian 
of  to-day  to  realize  that  for  many  years  his 
predecessors  suffered  enough  from  cold,  hun 
ger,  and  barbarous  ill-treatment  to  make  life 
a  burden  on  their  hands.  The  system,  while 
it  hardened  some  into  the  desired  manliness, 
must  have  killed  many  whose  feebler  constitu 
tions  could  ill  support  its  rigor.  Even  as  late 
as  1834,  we  are  told  by  one  who  had  ample 
opportunity  to  study  the  subject  carefully  that 
"  the  inmates  of  a  workhouse  or  a  jail  were 


18  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

better  fed  and  lodged  than  were  the  scholars 
of  Eton.  Boys  whose  parents  could  not  pay 
for  a  private  room  underwent  privations  that 
might  have  broken  down  a  cabin-boy,  and 
would  be  thought  inhuman  if  inflicted  on  a 
galley-slave."  Nor  is  this  sentiment  as  exag 
gerated  as  it  sounds.  To  get  up  at  five  on 
freezing  winter  mornings  ;  to  sweep  their  own 
floors  and  make  their  own  beds ;  to  go  two  by 
two  to  the  "children's  pump"  for  a  scanty 
wash;  to  eat  no  mouthful  of  food  until  nine 
o'clock ;  to  live  on  an  endless  round  of  mutton, 
potatoes,  and  beer,  none  of  them  too  plentiful 
or  too  good  ;  to  sleep  in  a  dismal  cell  without 
chair  or  table  ;  to  improvise  a  candlestick  out 
of  paper ;  to  be  starved,  frozen,  and  flogged,  — 
such  was  the  daily  life  of  the  scions  of  Eng 
land's  noblest  families,  of  lads  tenderly  nur 
tured  and  sent  from  princely  homes  to  win 
their  Greek  and  Latin  at  this  fearful  cost. 

Moreover,  the  picture  of  one  public  school 
is  in  all  essential  particulars  the  picture  of  the 
rest.  The  miseries  might  vary  somewhat,  but 
their  bulk  remained  the  same.  At  Westmin 
ster  the  younger  boys,  hard  pushed  by  hunger, 
gladly  received  the  broken  victuals  left  from 


CHILDREN,  PAST  AND  PRESENT.  19 

the  table  of  the  senior  election,  and  tried  to 
supplement  their  scanty  fare  with  strange  and 
mysterious  concoctions,  whose  unsavory  de 
tails  have  been  handed  down  among  the  mel 
ancholy  traditions  of  the  past. 

In  1847  a  young  brother  of  Lord  Mansfield 
being  very  ill  at  school,  his  mother  came  to 
visit  him.  There  was  but  one  chair  in  the 
room,  upon  which  the  poor  invalid  was  reclin 
ing  ;  but  his  companion,  seeing  the  dilemma, 
immediately  arose,  and  with  true  boyish  polite 
ness  offered  Lady  Mansfield  the  coal-scuttle, 
on  which  he  himself  had  been  sitting.  At 
Winchester,  Sydney  Smith  suffered  "many 
years  of  misery  and  starvation,"  while  his 
younger  brother,  Courtenay,  twice  ran  away, 
in  the  vain  effort  to  escape  his  wretchedness. 
"There  was  never  enough  provided  of  even 
the  coarsest  food  for  the  whole  school,"  writes 
Lady  Holland  ;  "  and  the  little  boys  were  of 
course  left  to  fare  as  well  as  they  could.  Even 
in  his  old  age  my  father  used  to  shudder  at  the 
recollections  of  Winchester,  and  I  have  heard 
him  speak  with  horror  of  the  misery  of  the 
years  he  spent  there.  The  whole  system,  he 
affirmed,  was  one  of  abuse,  neglect,  and  vice." 


20  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

In  the  matter  of  discipline  there  was  no 
shadow  of  choice  anywhere.  Capricious  cru 
elty  ruled  under  every  scholastic  roof.  On 
the  one  side,  we  encounter  Dean  Colet,  of  St. 
Paul's,  whom  Erasmus  reported  as  "delight 
ing  in  children  in  a  Christian  spirit ;  "  which 
meant  that  he  never  wearied  of  seeing  them 
suffer,  believing  that  the  more  they  endured 
as  boys,  the  more  worthy  they  would  grow  in 
manhood.  On  the  other,  we  are  confronted 
by  the  still  more  awful  ghost  of  Dr.  Keate, 
who  could  and  did  flog  eighty  boys  in  succes 
sion  without  a  pause;  and  who,  being  given 
the  confirmation  list  by  mistake  for  the  pun 
ishment  list,  insisted  on  flogging  every  one  of 
the  catechumens,  as  a  good  preparation  for 
receiving  the  sacrament.  Sir  Francis  Doyle, 
almost  the  only  apologist  who  has  so  far  ven 
tured  to  appear  in  behalf  of  this  fiery  little 
despot,  once  remarked  to  Lord  Blachford  that 
Keate  did  not  much  mind  a  boy's  lying  to 
him.  "What  he  hated  was  a  monotony  of 
excuses."  "  Mind  your  lying  to  him !  "  re 
torted  Lord  Blachford,  with  a  keen  recollec 
tion  of  his  own  juvenile  experiences ;  "  why 
he  exacted  it  as  a  token  of  respect." 


CHILDREN,  PAST  AND  PRESENT.  21 

If,  sick  of  the  brutality  of  the  schools,  we 
seek  those  rare  cases  in  which  a  home  edu 
cation  was  substituted,  we  are  generally  re 
warded  by  finding  the  comforts  greater  and 
the  cramming  worse.  It  is  simply  impossible 
for  a  pedagogue  to  "try  and  wring  from  a  hun 
dred  brains  the  excess  of  work  which  may,  un 
der  clever  treatment,  be  extracted  from  one ; 
and  so  the  Eton  boys,  with  all  their  manifold 
miseries,  were  at  least  spared  the  peculiar 
experiments  which  were  too  often  tried  upon 
solitary  scholars.  Nowadays  anxious  parents 
and  guardians  seem  to  labor  under  an  ill- 
founded  apprehension  that  their  children  are 
going  to  hurt  themselves  by  over-application 
to  their  books,  and  we  hear  a  great  deal  about 
the  expedience  of  restraining  this  inordinate 
zeal.  But  a  few  generations  back  such  com 
fortable  theories  had  yet  to  be  evolved,  and 
the  plain  duty  of  a  teacher  was  to  goad  the 
student  on  to  every  effort  in  his  power. 

Perhaps  the  two  most  striking  instances  of 
home  training  that  have  been  given  to  the 
world  are  those  of  John  Stuart  Mill  and  Gia- 
como  Leopardi ;  the  principal  difference  be 
ing  that,  while  the  English  boy  was  crammed 


22  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

scientifically  by  his  father,  the  Italian  poet 
was  permitted  to  relentlessly  cram  himself. 
In  both  cases  we  see  the  same  melancholy, 
blighted  childhood  ;  the  same  cold  indifference 
to  the  mother,  as  to  one  who  had  no  part  or 
parcel  in  their  lives  ;  the  same  joyless  routine 
of  labor ;  the  same  unboyish  gravity  and  pre 
cocious  intelligence.  Mfll  studied  Greek  at 
three,  Latin  at  eight,  the  Organon  at  eleven, 
and  Adam  Smith  at  thirteen.  Leopardi  at 
ten  was  well  acquainted  with  most  Latin  au 
thors,  and  undertook  alone  and  unaided  the 
study  of  Greek,  perfecting  himself  in  that  lan 
guage  before  he  was  fourteen.  Mill's  sole  rec 
reation  was  to  walk  with  his  father,  narrating 
to  him  the  substance  of  his  last  day's  reading. 
Leopardi,  being  forbidden  to  go  about  Keca- 
nati  without  his  tutor,  acquiesced  with  pa 
thetic  resignation,  and  ceased  to  wander  outside 
the  garden  gates.  Mill  had  all  boyish  enthu 
siasm  and  healthy  partisanship  crushed  out  of 
him  by  his  father's  pitiless  logic.  Leopardi's 
love  for  his  country  burned  like  a  smothered 
flame,  and  added  one  more  to  the  pangs  that 
eat  out  his  soul  in  silence.  His  was  truly  a 
wonderful  intellect ;  and  whereas  the  English 


CHILDREN,   PAST  AND  PRESENT.  23 

lad  was  merely  forced  by  training  into  a  pre 
cocity  foreign  to  his  nature,  and  which,  ac 
cording  to  Mr.  Bain,  failed  to  produce  any 
great  show  of  juvenile  scholarship,  the  Italian 
boy  fed  on  books  with  a  resistless  and  craving 
appetite,  his  mind  growing  warped  and  morbid 
as  his  enfeebled  body  sank  more  and  more  un 
der  the  unwholesome  strain.  In  the  long  lists 
of  despotically  reared  children  there  is  no  sad 
der  sight  than  this  undisciplined,  eager,  im 
petuous  soul,  burdened  alike  with  physical  and 
moral  weakness,  meeting  tyrannical  author 
ity  with  a  show  of  insincere  submission,  and 
laying  up  in  his  lonely  infancy  the  seeds  of  a 
sorrow  which  was  to  find  expression  in  the 
key-note  of  his  work,  Life  is  Only  Fit  to  be 
Despised. 

Between  the  severe  mental  training  of  boys 
and  the  education  thought  fit  and  proper  for 
girls,  there  was  throughout  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury  a  broad  and  purposeless  chasm.  Before 
that  time,  and  after  it,  too,  the  majority  of 
women  were  happily  ignorant  of  many  sub 
jects  which  every  school-girl  of  to-day  aspires 
to  handle  ;  but  during  the  reigns  of  Queen 
Anne  and  the  first  three  Georges,  this  igno- 


24  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

ranee  was  considered  an  essential  charm  of 
their  sex,  and  was  displayed  with  a  pretty 
ostentation  that  sufficiently  proves  its  value. 
Such  striking  exceptions  as  Madame  de  Stael, 
Mrs.  Montagu,  and  Anne  Darner  were  not 
wanting  to  give  points  of  light  to  the  picture ; 
but  they  hardly  represent  the  real  womanhood 
of  their  time.  Femininity  was  then  based 
upon  shallowness,  and  girls  were  solemnly 
warned  not  to  try  and  ape  the  acquirements  of 
men,  but  to  keep  themselves  rigorously  within 
their  own  ascertained  limits.  We  find  a  fa 
mous  school-teacher,  under  whose  fostering 
care  many  a  court  belle  was  trained  for  social 
triumphs,  laying  down  the  law  on  this  subject 
with  no  uncertain  hand,  and  definitely  placing 
women  in  their  proper  station.  "  Had  a  third 
order  been  necessary,"  she  writes  naively, 
"doubtless  one  would  have  been  created,  a 
midway  kind  of  being."  In  default,  however, 
of  this  recognized  via  media,  she  deprecates 
all  impious  attempts  to  bridge  over  the  chasm 
between  the  two  sexes ;  and  "  accounts  it  a 
misfortune  for  a  female  to  be  learned,  a  ge 
nius,  or  in  any  way  a  prodigy,  as  it  removes 
her  from  her  natural  sphere. 


CHILDREN,  PAST  AND  PRESENT.  25 

"  Those  were  days,"  says  a  writer  in  Black- 
wood,  "  when  superficial  teaching  was  thought 
the  proper  teaching  for  girls ;  when  every 
science  had  its  feminine  language,  as  Hindu 
ladies  talk  with  a  difference  and  with  softer 
terminations  than  their  lords  :  as  The  Young 
Ladies'  Geography,  which  is  to  be  read  in 
stead  of  novels ;  A  Young  Ladies'  Guide 
to  Astronomy ;  The  Use  of  the  Globes  for 
Girls'  Schools ;  and  the  Ladies'  Polite  Let 
ter-Writer."  What  was  really  necessary  for 
a  girl  was  to  learn  how  to  knit,  to  dance,  to 
curtsy,  and  to  carve ;  the  last-named  accom 
plishment  being  one  of  her  exclusive  privileges. 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  received  lessons 
from  a  professional  carving-master,  who  taught 
her  the  art  scientifically ;  and  during  her  fa 
ther's  grand  dinners  her  labors  were  often  so 
exhausting  that  translating  the  Enchiridion 
must  have  seemed  by  comparison  a  light  and 
easy  task.  Indeed,  after  that  brilliant  baby 
entrance  into  the  Kitcat  Club,  very  little  that 
was  pleasant  fell  to  Lady  Mary's  share ;  and 
years  later  she  recalls  the  dreary  memories  of 
her  youth  in  a  letter  written  to  her  sister, 
Lady  Mar.  "  Don't  you  remember,"  she  asks, 


26  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

pathetically,  "  how  miserable  we  were  in  the 
little  parlor  at  Thoresby  ?  " 

Her  own  education  she  always  protested  was 
of  the  worst  and  flimsiest  character,  and  her 
girlish  scorn  at  the  restraints  that  cramped  and 
fettered  her  is  expressed  vigorously  enough 
in  the  well-known  letter  to  Bishop  Burnet.  It 
was  considered  almost  criminal,  she  complains, 
to  improve  her  reason,  or  even  to  fancy  she 
had  any.  To  be  learned  was  to  be  held  up 
to  universal  ridicule,  and  the  only  line  of 
conduct  open  to  her  was  to  play  the  fool  in 
concert  with  other  women  of  quality,  "  whose 
birth  and  leisure  merely  serve  to  make  them 
the  most  useless  and  worthless  part  of  crea 
tion."  Yet  viewed  alongside  of  her  contem 
poraries,  Lady  Mary's  advantages  were  really 
quite  unusual.  She  had  some  little  guidance 
in  her  studies,  with  no  particular  opposition  to 
overcome,  and  tolerance  was  as  much  at  any 
time  as  a  thoughtful  girl  could  hope  for. 
Nearly  a  century  later  we  find  little  Mary 
Fairfax  —  afterwards  Mrs.  Somerville,  and 
the  most  learned  woman  in  England  —  being 
taught  how  to  sew,  to  read  her  Bible,  and  to 
learn  the  Shorter  Catechism;  all  else  being 


CHILDREN,  PAST  AND  PRESENT.  27 

considered  superfluous  for  a  female.  More 
over,  the  child's  early  application  to  her  books 
was  regarded  with  great  disfavor  by  her  rela 
tives,  who  plainly  thought  that  no  good  was 
likely  to  come  of  it.  "'I  wonder,"  said  her 
rigid  aunt  to  Lady  Fairfax,  "  that  you  let 
Mary  waste  her  time  in  reading !  " 

"  You  cannot  hammer  a  girl  into  any 
thing,"  says  Kuskin,  who  has  constituted  him 
self  both  champion  and  mentor  of  the  sex ; 
and  perhaps  this  was  the  reason  that  so  many 
of  these  rigorously  drilled  and  kept-down  girls 
blossomed  perversely  into  brilliant  and  schol 
arly  women.  Nevertheless,  it  is  comforting  to 
turn  back  for  a  moment,  and  see  what  Hol 
land,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  could  do  for 
her  clever  children.  Mr.  Gosse  has  shown  us 
a  charming  picture  of  the  three  daughters  of 
Roemer  Visscher,  the  poetess  Tesselschade  and 
her  less  famous  sisters,  —  three  little  girls, 
whose  healthy  mental  and  physical  training 
was  happily  free  from  either  narrow  contrac 
tion  or  hot-house  pressure.  "  All  of  them," 
writes  Ernestus  Brink, "  were  practiced  in  very 
sweet  accomplishments.  They  coidd  play  mu 
sic,  paint,  write,  and  engrave  on  glass,  make 


28  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

poems,  cut  emblems,  embroider  all  manner  of 
fabrics,  and  swim  well ;  which  last  thing  they 
had  learned  in  their  father's  garden,  where 
there  was  a  canal  with  water,  outside  the 
city."  What  wonder  that  these  little  maid 
ens,  with  stilled  fingers,  and  clear  heads,  and 
vigorous  bodies,  grew  into  three  keen-witted 
and  charming  women,  around  whom  we  find 
grouped  that  rich  array  of  talent  which  sud 
denly  raised  Holland  to  a  unique  literary  dis 
tinction  !  What  wonder  that  their  influence, 
alike  refining  and  strengthening,  was  felt  on 
every  hand,  and  was  repaid  with  universal 
gratitude  and  love ! 

There  is  a  story  told  of  Professor  Wilson, 
that  one  day,  listening  to  a  lecture  on  educa 
tion  by  Dr.  Whately,  he  grew  manifestly  im 
patient  at  the  rules  laid  down,  and  finally 
slipped  out  of  the  room,  exclaiming  irately  to 
a  friend  who  followed  him,  "  I  always  thought 
God  Almighty  made  man,  but  he  says  it  was 
the  schoolmaster." 

In  like  manner  many  of  us  have  wondered 
from  time  to  time  whether  children  are  made 
of  such  ductile  material,  and  can  be  as  readily 
moulded  to  our  wishes,  as  educators  would 


CHILDREN,  PAST  AND  PRESENT,     29 

have  us  believe.  If  it  be  true  that  nature 
counts  for  nothing  and  training  for  every 
thing,  then  what  a  gap  between  the  boys  and 
girls  of  two  hundred  years  ago  and  the  boys 
and  girls  we  know  to-day !  The  rigid  bauds 
that  once  bound  the  young  to  decorum  have 
dwindled  to  a  silver  thread  that  snaps  under 
every  restive  movement.  To  have  "  perfectly 
natural "  children  seems  to  be  the  outspoken 
ambition  of  parents,  who  have  succeeded  in 
retrograding  their  offspring  from  artificial  civ 
ilization  to  that  pure  and  wholesome  savagery 
which  is  too  plainly  their  ideal.  "  It  is  as 
sumed  nowadays,"  declares  an  angry  critic, 
"  that  children  have  come  into  the  world  to 
make  a  noise  ;  and  it  is  the  part  of  every  good 
parent  to  put  up  with  it,  and  to  make  all 
household  arrangements  with  a  view  to  their 
sole  pleasure  and  convenience." 

That  the  children  brought  up  under  this 
relaxed  discipline  acquire  certain  merits  and 
charms  of  their  own  is  an  easily  acknowledged 
fact.  We  are  not  now  alluding  to  those 
spoiled  and  over-indulged  little  people  who 
are  the  recognized  scourges  of  humanity,  but 
merely  to  the  boys  and  girls  who  have  been 


30  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

allowed  from  infancy  that  large  degree  of 
freedom  which  is'  deemed  expedient  for  en 
lightened  nurseries,  and  who  regulate  their 
own  conduct  on  the  vast  majority  of  occasions. 
They  are  as  a  rule  light-hearted,  truthful, 
affectionate,  and  occasionally  amusing  ;  but  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  they  lack  that  nicety  of 
breeding  which  was  at  one  time  the  distin 
guishing  mark  of  children  of  the  upper  classes, 
and  which  was  in  a  great  measure  born  of  the 
restraints  that  surrounded  them.  The  faculty 
of  sitting  still  without  fidgeting,  of  walking 
without  rushing,  and  of  speaking  without 
screaming  can  be  acquired  only  under  tuition  ; 
but  it  is  worth  some  little  trouble  to  attain. 
When  Sydney  Smith  remarked  that  the  chil 
dren  of  rank  were  generally  so  much  better 
bred  than  the  children  of  the  middle  classes, 
he  recognized  the  greater  need  for  self-restraint 
that  entered  into  their  lives.  They  may  have 
been  less  natural,  perhaps,  but  they  were  infi 
nitely  more  pleasing  to  his  fastidious  eyes ;  and 
the  unconscious  grace  which  he  admired  was 
merely  the  reflection  of  the  universal  courtesy 
that  surrounded  them.  Nor  is  this  all.  "  The 
necessity  of  self  -  repression,"  says  a  recent 


CHILDREN,   PAST  AND  PRESENT.  31 

writer  in  Blackwood,  "  makes  room  for  thought, 
which  those  children  miss  who  have  no  formali 
ties  to  observe,  no  customs  to  respect,  who  blurt 
out  every  irrelevance,  who  interpose  at  will  with 
question  and  opinion  as  it  enters  the  brain. 
Children  don't  learn  to  talk  by  chattering  to 
one  another,  and  saying  what  comes  upper 
most.  Mere  listening  with  intelligence  in 
volves  an  exercise  of  mental  speech,  and  ob 
servant  silence  opens  the  pores  of  the  mind  as 
impatient  demands  for  explanation  never  do." 
This  is  true,  inasmuch  as  it  is  not  the  child 
who  is  encouraged  to  talk  continually  who  in 
the  end  learns  how  to  arrange  and  express  his 
ideas.  Nor  does  the  fretful  desire  to  be  told 
at  once  what  everything  means  imply  the  ac 
tive  mind  which  parents  so  fondly  suppose  ; 
but  rather  a  languid  percipience,  unable  to 
decipher  the  simplest  causes  for  itself.  Yet 
where  shall  we  turn  to  look  for  the  "  observant 
silence,"  so  highly  recommended  ?  The  young 
people  who  observed  and  were  silent  have 
passed  away,  —  little  John  Ruskin  being  as 
suredly  the  last  of  the  species,  —  and  their 
places  are  filled  by  those  to  whom  observation 
and  silence  are  alike  unknown.  This  is  the 


32  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

children's  age,  and  all  things  are  subservient 
to  their  wishes.  Masses  of  juvenile  literature 
are  published  annually  for  their  amusement ; 
conversation  is  reduced  steadily  to  their  level 
while  they  are  present ;  meals  are  arranged  to 
suit  their  hours,  and  the  dishes  thereof  to  suit 
their  palates;  studies  are  made  simpler  and 
toys  more  elaborate  with  each  succeeding  year. 
The  hardships  they  once  suffered  are  now  hap 
pily  ended,  the  decorum  once  exacted  is  fading 
rapidly  away.  We  accept  the  situation  with 
philosophy,  and  only  now  and  then,  under  the 
pressure  of  some  new  development,  are  startled 
into  asking  ourselves  where  it  is  likely  to  end. 


ON  THE    BENEFITS  OF   SUPERSTI 
TION. 

"WE  in  England,"  says  Mr.  Kinglake, 
"are  scarcely  sufficiently  conscious  of  the 
great  debt  we  owe  to  the  wise  and  watchful 
press  which  presides  over  the  formation  of 
our  opinions,  and  which  brings  about  this 
splendid  result,  namely,  that  in  matters  of  be 
lief  the  humblest  of  us  are  lifted  up  to  the 
level  of  the  most  sagacious ;  so  that  really  a 
simple  cornet  in  the  Blues  is  no  more  likely 
to  entertain  a  foolish  belief  in  ghosts,  or 
witchcraft,  or  any  other  supernatural  topic, 
than  the  Lord  High  Chancellor  or  the  leader 
of  the  House  of  Commons."  This  delicate 
sarcasm,  delivered  with  all  the  author's  habit 
ual  serenity  of  mind,  is  quoted  by  Mr.  Ruskin 
in  his  Art  of  England  ;  assentingly,  indeed, 
but  with  a,  half-concealed  dismay  that  any  one 
could  find  it  in  his  heart  to  be  funny  upon 
such  a  distressing  subject.  When  he,  Mr. 


34  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

Ruskin,  hurls  his  satiric  shafts  against  the 
spirit  of  modern  skepticism,  the  points  are 
touched  with  caustic,  and  betray  a  deep  impa 
tience  darkening  quickly  into  wrath.  Is  it 
not  bad  enough  that  we  ride  in  steam-cars  in 
stead  of  post-chaises,  live  amid  brick  houses 
instead  of  green  fields,  and  pass  by  some  of 
the  "  most  accomplished  pictures  in  the 
world  "  to  stare  gaping  at  the  last  new  ma 
chine,  with  its  network  of  slow-revolving, 
wicked-looking  wheels?  If,  in  addition  to 
these  too  prominent  faults,  we  are  going  to 
frown  down  the  old  appealing  superstitions, 
and  threaten  them,  like  naughty  children, 
with  the  corrective  discipline  of  scientific  re 
search,  he  very  properly  turns  his  back  upon 
us  forever,  and  distinctly  says  he  has  no  fur 
ther  message  for  our  ears. 

Let  us  rather,  then,  approach  the  subject 
with  the  invaluable  humility  of  Don  Bernal 
Dias  del  Castillo,  that  gallant  soldier  who  fol 
lowed  the  fortunes  of  Cortes  into  Mexico,  and 
afterwards  penned  the  Historia  Verdadera,  an 
ingenuous  narrative  of  their  discoveries,  their 
hardships,  and  their  many  battles.  In  one 
of  these,  it  seems,  the  blessed  Saint  lago 


ON  THE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.       35 

appeared  in  the  thickest  of  the  fray,  mounted 
on  a  snow-white  charger,  leading  his  beloved 
Spaniards  to  victory.  Now  the  conquestador 
freely  admits  that  he  himself  did  not  behold 
the  saint;  on  the  contrary,  what  he  did  see 
in  that  particular  spot  was  a  cavalier  named 
Francisco  de  Morla,  riding  on  a  chestnut 
horse.  But  does  he,  on  that  account,  puff 
himself  up  with  pride,  and  declare  that  his 
more  fortunate  comrades  were  mistaken  ?  By 
no  means  !  He  is  as  firmly  convinced  of  the 
presence  of  the  vision  as  if  it  had  been  appar 
ent  to  his  eyes,  and  with  admirable  modesty 
lays  all  the  blame  upon  his  own  unworthiness. 
"  Sinner  that  I  am  !  "  he  exclaims  devoutly, 
"  why  should  I  have  been  permitted  to  behold 
the  blessed  apostle  ? "  In  the  same  spirit, 
honest  Peter  Walker  strained  his  sight  in 
vain  for  a  glimpse  of  the  ghostly  armies  that 
crossed  the  Clyde  in  the  summer  of  1686, 
and,  seeing  nothing,  was  content  to  believe  in 
them,  all  the  same,  on  the  testimony  of  his 
neighbors. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  appears  to  have 
wasted  a  good  deal  of  time  in  trying  to  per 
suade  himself  that  he  put  no  faith  in  spirits, 


36  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

confesses  quite  humbly,  in  his  old  age,  that 
"  the  tendency  to  belief  in  supernatural  agen 
cies  seems  connected  with  and  deduced  from 
the  invaluable  conviction  of  the  certainty  of  a 
future  state."  And  beyond  a  doubt  this  ten 
dency  was  throughout  his  life  the  source  of 
many  pleasurable  emotions.  So  much  so,  in 
fact,  that,  according  to  Mr.  Pater's  theory  of 
happiness,  the  loss  of  these  emotions,  bred  in 
him  from  childhood,  would  have  been  very 
inadequately  repaid  by  a  gain  in  scientific 
knowledge.  If  it  be  the  true  wisdom  to  direct 
our  finest  efforts  towards  multiplying  our  sen 
sations,  and  so  expanding  the  brief  interval 
we  call  life,  then  the  old  unquestioning  cre 
dulity  was  a  more  powerful  motor  in  human 
happiness  than  any  sentiment  that  fills  its 
ground  to-day.  In  the  first  place  it  was  closely 
associated  with  certain  types  of  beauty,  and 
beauty  is  one  of  the  tonics  now  most  ear 
nestly  recommended  to  our  sick  souls.  "  Les 
fions  d'aut  fais  "  were  charming  to  the  very 
tips  of  their  dewy,  trembling  wings  ;  the  elfin 
people,  who  danced  in  the  forest  glades  under 
the  white  moonbeams,  danced  their  way  with 
out  any  difficulty  right  into  the  hearts  of  men ; 


ON  THE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.      37 

the  swan-maiden,  who  ventured  shyly  in  the 
fisher's  path,  was  easily  transformed  into  a 
loving  wife  ;  even  the  mara,  most  suspicious 
and  terrible  of  ghostly  visitors,  has  often  laid 
aside  her  darker  instincts,  and  developed  into 
a  cheerful  spouse,  with  only  a  tinge  of  mys 
tery  to  make  her  more  attractive  in  her  hus 
band's  eyes.  Melusina  combing  her  golden 
hair  by  the  bubbling  fountain  of  Lusignan, 
Undine  playing  in  the  rain-drenched  forest, 
the  nixie  dancing  at  the  village  feast  with  her 
handsome  Flemish  lad,  and  the  mermaid  re 
luctantly  leaving  her  watery  home  to  wed  the 
youth  who  captured  her  magic  seal-skin,  all 
belong  to  the  sisterhood  of  beauty,  and  their 
images  did  good  service  in  raising  the  vulgar 
mind  from  its  enforced  contemplation  of  the 
sordid  troubles,  the  droning  vexations,  of  life. 
Next,  the  happy  believers  in  the  supernat 
ural  owed  to  their  simplicity  delicious  throbs 
of  fear, —  not  craven  cowardice,  but  that  more 
refined  and  complex  feeling,  which  is  of  all 
sensations  the  most  enthralling,  the  most  elu 
sive,  and  the  most  impossible  to  define.  Fear, 
like  all  other  treacherous  gifts,  must  be 
handled  with  discrimination :  a  thought  too 


38  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

much,  and  we  are  brutalized  and  degraded ; 
but  within  certain  limits  it  enhances  all  the 
pleasures  of  life.  When  Captain  Forsyth 
stood  behind  a  tree  on  a  sultry  summer  morn 
ing,  and  saw  the  tigress  step  softly  through 
the  long  jungle  grass,  and  the  affrighted 
monkeys  swing  chattering  overhead,  there 
must  have  come  upon  him  that  sensation  of 
awe  which  alone  makes  courage  possible.1 
He  knew  that  his  life  hung  trembling  in  the 
balance,  and  that  all  depended  upon  the  first 
shot  he  fired.  He  respected,  as  a  sane  man 
would,  the  mighty  strength  of  his  antagonist, 
her  graceful  limbs  instinct  with  power,  her 
cruel  eyes  blinking  in  the  yellow  dawn.  And 
born  of  the  fear,  which  stirred  but  could  not 
conquer  him,  came  the  keen  transport  of  the 
hunter,  who  feels  that  one  such  supremely 
heroic  moment  is  worth  a  year  of  ordinary 
life.  Without  that  dread,  not  only  would  the 
joy  be  lessened,  and  the  glad  rebound  from 
danger  to  a  sense  of  safety  lost  forever,  but 
the  disciplined  and  manly  courage  of  the  Eng 
lish  soldier  would  degenerate  into  a  mere 

1  The  Highlands  of  Central   India.     By  Captain  James 
Forsyth. 


ON   THE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.      39 

brutish  audacity,  hardly  above  the  level  of  the 
beast  he  slays. 

In  children,  this  delicate  emotion  of  fear, 
growing  out  of  their  dependent  condition, 
gives  dignity  and  meaning  to  their  courage 
when  they  are  brave,  and  a  delicious  zest  to 
their  youthful  delinquencies.  Gray,  in  his 
chilly  and  melancholy  manhood,  years  after 
he  has  resigned  himself  to  never  again  being 
"  either  dirty  or  amused  "  as  long  as  he  lives, 
goes  back  like  a  flash  to  the  unlawful  delight 
of  a  schoolboy's  stolen  freedom :  — 

"  Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 
And  snatch  a  fearful  joy." 

And  who  that  has  ever  watched  a  party  of 
children,  listening  with  bright  eyes  and  parted 
lips  to  some  weird,  uncanny  legend,  —  like 
that  group  of  little  girls  for  instance,  in  Mr. 
Charles  Gregory's  picture  Tales  and  Won 
ders,  —  can  doubt  for  a  moment  the  "  fearful 
joy  "  that  terror  lends  them  ?  Nowadays,  it 
is  true,  their  youthful  ears  are  but  too  well 
guarded  from  such  indiscretions  until  they  are 
old  enough  to  scoff  at  all  fantastic  folly,  and 
the  age  at  which  they  learn  to  scoff  is  one  of 


40  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

the  most  astonishing  things  about  our  mod 
ern  progress.  They  have  ceased  to  read  fairy 
stories,  because  they  no  longer  believe  in 
fairies;  they  find  Hans  Andersen  silly,  and 
the  Arabian  Nights  stupid ;  and  the  very 
babies,  "  skeptics  in  long-coats,"  scorn  you 
openly  if  you  venture  to  hint  at  Santa  Glaus. 
"  What  did  Kriss  Kringle  bring  you  this 
Christmas  ?  "  I  rashly  asked  a  tiny  mite  of 
a  girl ;  and  her  answer  was  as  emphatic  as 
Betsey  Prig's,  when,  with  folded  arms  and  a 
contemptuous  mien,  she  let  fall  the  ever  mem 
orable  words,  "  I  don't  believe  there's  no  sich 
a  person." 

Yet  the  supernatural,  provided  it  be  not  too 
horrible,  is  legitimate  food  for  a  child's  mind, 
nourishes  its  imagination,  inspires  a  healthy 
awe,  and  is  death  to  that  precocious  pedantry 
which  is  the  least  pleasing  trait  that  children 
are  wont  to  manifest.  While  few  are  willing 
to  go  as  far  as  Mr.  Ruskin,  who,  having  him 
self  been  brought  up  on  fairy  legends,  con 
fesses  that  his  "  first  impulse  would  be  to  in 
sist  upon  every  story  we  tell  to  a  child  being 
untrue,  and  every  scene  we  paint  for  it  impos 
sible,"  yet  a  fair  proportion  of  the  untrue  and 


ON  THE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.      41 

the  impossible  should  enter  into  its  education, 
and  it  should  be  left  to  the  enjoyment  of  them 
as  long  as  may  be.  Those  of  us  who  have 
been  happy  enough  to  believe  that  salaman 
ders  basked  in  the  fire  and  mermaids  swam  in 
the  deeps,  that  were-wolves  roamed  in  the  for 
ests  and  witches  rode  in  the  storm,  are  richei 
by  all  these  unfading  pictures  and  unforgotten 
memories  than  our  more  scrupulously  reared 
neighbors.  And  what  if  we  could  give  such 
things  the  semblance  of  reality  once  more,  — 
could  set  foot  in  spirit  within  the  enchanted 
forest  of  Broceliande,  and  enjoy  the  tempestu 
ous  gusts  of  fear  that  shook  the  heart-strings 
of  the  Breton  peasant,  as  the  great  trees  drew 
their  mysterious  shadows  above  his  head? 
On  either  side  lurk  shadowy  forms  of  elf  and 
fairy,  half  hidden  by  the  swelling  trunks ;  the 
wind  whispers  in  the  heavy  boughs,  and  he 
hears  their  low,  malicious  laughter ;  the  dry 
leaves  rustle  beneath  his  feet,  —  he  knows 
their  stealthy  steps  are  close  behind ;  a  broken 
twig  falls  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  starts  trem 
bling,  for  unseen  hands  have  touched  him. 
Around  his  neck  hang  a  silver  medal  of  Our 
Lady  and  a  bit  of  ash  wood  given  hirn  by  a 


42  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

wise  woman,  whom  many  believe  a  witch; 
thus  is  he  doubly  guarded  from  the  powers  of 
evil.  Beyond  the  forest  lies  the  open  path, 
where  wife  and  children  stand  waiting  by  the 
cottage  door.  He  is  a  brave  man  to  wander 
in  the  gloaming,  and  if  he  reaches  home  there 
will  be  much  to  tell  of  all  that  he  has  seen, 
and  heard,  and  felt.  Should  he  be  devoured 
by  wolves,  however,  —  and  there  is  always  this 
prosaic  danger  to  be  apprehended,  —  then  his 
comrades  will  relate  how  he  left  them  and 
went  alone  into  the  haunted  woods,  and  his  sor 
rowing  widow  will  know  that  the  fairies  have 
carried  him  away,  or  turned  him  into  stone. 
And  the  wise  woman,  reproached,  perhaps,  for 
the  impotence  of  her  charms,  will  say  how 
with  her  own  aged  eyes  she  has  three  times 
seen  Kourigan,  Death's  elder  brother,  flitting 
before  the  doomed  man,  and  knew  that  his 
fate  was  sealed.  So  while  fresh  tales  of  mys 
tery  cluster  round  his  name,  and  his  children 
breathe  them  in  trembling  whispers  by  the 
fireside,  their  mother  will  wait  hopefully  for 
the  spell  to  be  broken,  and  the  lost  given  back 
to  her  arms ;  until  Pierrot,  the  charcoal- 
burner,  persuades  her  that  a  stone  remains 


ON  THE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.      43 

a  stone  until  the  Judgment  Day,  and  that  in 
the  mean  time  his  own  hut  by  the  kiln  is 
empty,  and  he  needs  a  wife. 

But  superstition,  it  is  claimed,  begets  cru 
elty,  and  cruelty  is  a  vice  now  most  rigorously 
frowned  down  by  polite  society.  Daring  spir 
its,  like  Mr.  Besant,  may  still  urge  its  claims 
upon  our  reluctant  consideration  ;  Mr.  Andrew 
Lang  may  pronounce  it  an  essential  element 
of  humor ;  or  a  purely  speculative  genius,  like 
Mr.  Pater,  may  venture  to  show  how  adroitly 
it  can  be  used  as  a  help  to  religious  senti 
ment  ;  but  every  age  has  pet  vices  of  its  own, 
and,  being  singularly  intolerant  of  those  it  has 
discarded,  is  not  inclined  to  listen  to  any  ar 
guments  in  their  favor.  Superstition  burned 
old  women  for  witches,  dotards  for  warlocks, 
and  idiots  for  were-wolves  ;  but  in  its  gentler 
aspect  it  often  threw  a  veil  of  charity  over 
both  man  and  beast.  The  Greek  rustic,  who 
found  a  water-newt  wriggling  in  his  gourd, 
tossed  the  little  creature  back  into  the  stream, 
remembering  that  it  was  the  unfortunate  As- 
calaphus,  whom  the  wrath  of  Demeter  had  con 
signed  to  this  loathsome  doom.  The  medi 
aeval  housewife,  when  startled  by  a  gaunt  wolf 


44  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

gazing  through  her  kitchen  window,  bethought 
her  that  this  might  be  her  lost  husband,  roam 
ing  helpless  and  bewitched,  and  so  gave  the 
starving  creature  food. 

"  O  -was  it  war-wolf  in  the  wood  ? 
Or  was  it  mermaid  in  the  sea  ? 
Or  was  it  man,  or  vile  woman, 
My  ain  true  love,  that  misshaped  thee  ?  " 

The  West  Indian  negress  still  bestows  chicken- 
soup  instead  of  scalding  water  on  the  invading 
army  of  black  ants,  believing  that  if  kindly 
treated  they  will  show  their  gratitude  in  the 
only  way  that  ants  can  manifest  it,  —  by  tak 
ing  their  departure. 

Granted  that  in  these  acts  of  gentleness 
there  are  traces  of  fear  and  self -consideration  ; 
but  who  shall  say  that  all  our  good  deeds  are 
not  built  up  on  some  such  trestle-work  of 
foibles  ?  "  La  virtu  n'iroit  pas  si  loin,  si  la 
vanite  ne  lui  tenoit  pas  compagnie."  And 
what  universal  politeness  has  been  fostered  by 
the  terror  that  superstition  breeds,  what  deli 
cate  euphemisms  containing  the  very  soul  of 
courtesy !  Consider  the  Greeks,  who  christ 
ened  the  dread  furies  "  Eumenides,"  or  "  gra 
cious  ones  ; "  the  Scotch  who  warily  spoke  of 


ON  THE  BENEFITS  OF  SUPERSTITION.   45 

the  devil  as  the  "good  man,"  lest  his  sharp 
ears  should  catch  a  more  unflattering  title; 
the  Dyak  who  respectfully  mentions  the  small 
pox  as  "  the  chief  ; "  the  East  Indian  who 
calls  the  tiger  "  lord  "  or  "  grandfather ; "  and 
the  Laplander,  who  gracefully  alludes  to  the 
white  bear  as  "  the  fur-clad  one,"  and  then  re 
alize  what  perfection  of  breeding  was  involved 
in  what  we  are  wont  to  call  ignorant  credulity. 
Again,  in  the  stress  of  modern  life,  how  lit 
tle  room  is  left  for  that  most  comfortable  van 
ity  which  whispers  in  our  ears  that  failures  are 
not  faults !  Now  we  are  taught  from  infancy 
that  we  must  rise  or  fall  upon  our  own  merits ; 
that  vigilance  wins  success,  and  incapacity 
means  ruin.  But  before  the  world  had  grown 
so  pitilessly  logical  there  was  no  lack  of  ex 
cuses  for  the  defeated,  and  of  unflattering 
comments  for  the  strong.  Did  some  shrewd 
Cornish  miner  open  a  rich  vein  of  ore,  then  it 
was  apparent  to  his  fellow-toilers  that  the 
knackers  had  been  at  work,  leading  him  on  by 
their  mysterious  tapping  to  this  more  fruitful 
field.  But  let  him  proceed  warily,  for  the 
knacker,  like  its  German  brother,  the  kobold, 
is  but  a  capricious  sprite,  and  some  day  may 


46  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

beguile  him  into  a  mysterious  passage  or  long- 
forgotten  chamber  in  the  mine,  whence  he 
shall  never  more  return.  His  bones  will 
whiten  in  their  prison,  while  his  spirit,  wan 
dering  restlessly  among  the  subterranean  cor^ 
ridors,  will  be  heard  on  Christmas  Eve,  ham% 
niering  wearily  away  till  the  gray  dawn 
brightens  in  the  east.  Or  did  some  prosper 
ous  farmer  save  his  crop  while  his  neighbors' 
corn  was  blighted,  and  raise  upon  his  small 
estate  more  than  their  broader  acres  could  be 
forced  to  yield,  there  was  no  opportunity  af 
forded  him  for  pride  or  self-congratulation. 
Only  the  witch's  art  could  bring  about  such 
strange  results,  and  the  same  sorceries  that 
had  aided  him  had,  doubtless,  been  the  ruin 
of  his  friends.  He  was  a  lucky  man  if  their 
indignation  went  no  further  than  muttered 
phrases  and  averted  heads.  Does  not  Pliny 
tell  us  the  story  of  Caius  Furius  Cresinus, 
whose  heavy  crops  awoke  such  mingled  anger 
and  suspicion  in  his  neighbors'  hearts  that  he 
was  accused  in  the  courts  of  conjuring  their 
grain  and  fruit  into  his  own  scanty  ground  ? 
If  a  woman  aspired  to  be  neater  than  her  gos 
sips,  or  to  spin  more  wool  than  they  were  able 


ON  THE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.      47 

to  display,  it  was  only  because  the  pixies* 
labored  for  her  at  night ;  turning  her  wheel 
briskly  in  the  moonlight,  splitting  the  wood, 
and  drawing  the  water,  while  she  drowsed  idly 
in  her  bed. 

' '  And  every  night  the  pixies  good 
Drive  round  the  wheel  with  sound  subdued, 
And  leave  —  in  this  they  never  fail  — 
A  silver  penny  in  the  pail.' ' 

Even  to  the  clergy  this  engaging  theory 
brought  its  consolations.  When  the  Rever 
end  Lucas  Jacobson  Debes,  pastor  of  Thors- 
haven  in  1670,  found  that  his  congregation 
was  growing  slim,  he  was  not  forced,  in  bit 
terness  of  spirit,  to  ask  himself  were  his  ser 
mons  dull,  but  promptly  laid  all  the  blame 
upon  the  biergen-trold,  the  spectres  of  the 
mountains,  whom  he  angrily  accused,  in  a 
lengthy  homily,  of  disturbing  his  flock,  and 
even  pushing  their  discourtesy  so  far  as  to 
carry  them  off  bodily  before  his  discourse  was 
completed. 

Indeed,  it  is  to  the  clergy  that  we  are  in 
debted  for  much  interesting  information  con 
cerning  the  habits  of  goblins,  witches,  and 
gnomes.  The  Reverend  Robert  Kirke,  of 


48  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

Aberfoyle,  Perthshire,  divided  his  literary  la 
bors  impartially  between  a  translation  of  the 
Psalms  into  Gaelic  verse  and  an  elaborate 
treatise  on  the  "  Subterranean  and  for  the 
most  part  Invisible  People,  heretofore  going 
under  the  name  of  Elves,  Faunes,  and  Fairies, 
or  the  like,"  which  was  printed,  with  the  au 
thor's  name  attached,  in  1691.  Here,  unsul 
lied  by  any  taint  of  skepticism,  we  have  an 
array  of  curious  facts  that  would  suggest  the 
closest  intimacy  between  the  rector  and  the 
"  Invisible  People,"  who  at  any  rate  concealed 
nothing  from  his  eyes.  He  tells  us  gravely 
that  they  marry,  have  children,  die,  and  are 
buried,  very  much  like  ordinary  mortals ;  that 
they  are  inveterate  thieves,  stealing  every 
thing,  from  the  milk  in  the  dairy  to  the  baby 
lying  on  its  mother's  breast ;  that  they  can 
fire  their  elfin  arrow-heads  so  adroitly  that  the 
weapon  penetrates  to  the  heart  without  break 
ing  the  skin,  and  he  himself  has  seen  animals 
wounded  in  this  manner ;  that  iron  in  any 
shape  or  form  is  a  terror  to  them,  not  for  the 
same  reason  that  Solomon  misliked  it,  but  on 
account  of  the  proximity  of  the  great  iron 
mines  to  the  place  of  eternal  punishment ;  and 


ON   THE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.      49 

• — strangest  of  all  —  that  they  can  read  and 
write,  and  have  extensive  libraries,  where  light 
and  toyish  books  alternate  with  ponderous 
volumes  on  abstruse  mystical  subjects.  Only 
the  Bible  may  not  be  found  among  them. 

How  Mr.  Kirke  acquired  all  these  particu 
lars  —  whether,  like  John  Dietrich,  he  lived 
in  the  Elfin  Mound  and  grew  wise  on  elfin 
wisdom,  or  whether  he  adopted  a  less  labori 
ous  and  secluded  method  —  does  not  transpire. 
But  one  thing  is  certain :  he  was  destined  to 
pay  a  heavy  price  for  his  unhallowed  knowl 
edge.  The  fairies,  justly  irritated  at  such  an 
open  revelation  of  their  secrets,  revenged  them 
selves  signally  by  carrying  off  the  offender, 
and  imprisoning  him  beneath  the  dun-shi,  or 
goblin  hill,  where  he  has  since  had  ample  op 
portunity  to  pursue  his  investigations.  It  is 
true,  his  parishioners  supposed  he  had  died 
of  apoplexy,  and,  under  that  impression, 
buried  him  in  Aberfoyle  churchyard ;  but  his 
successor,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Grahame,  informs  us 
of  the  widespread  belief  concerning  his  true 
fate.  An  effort  was  even  made  to  rescue  him 
from  his  captivity,  but  it  failed  through  the 
neglect  of  a  kinsman,  Grahame  of  Duchray; 


50  BOOKS   AND  MEN. 

and  Robert  Kirke,  like  Thomas  of  Ercildoune 
and  the  three  miners  of  the  Kuttenberg,  still 
"  drees  his  weird  "  in  the  enchanted  halls  of 
elfland. 

When  the  unfortunate  witches  of  Warbois 
were  condemned  to  death,  on  the  testimony  of 
the  Throgmorton  children,  Sir  Samuel  Crom 
well,  as  lord  of  the  manor,  received  forty 
pounds  out  of  their  estate ;  which  sum  he 
turned  into  a  rent-charge  of  forty  shillings 
yearly,  for  the  endowment  of  an  annual  lec 
ture  on  witchcraft,  to  be  preached  by  a  doc 
tor  or  bachelor  of  divinity,  of  Queen's  Col 
lege,  Cambridge.  Thus  he  provided  for  his 
tenants  a  good  sound  church  doctrine  on  this 
interesting  subject,  and  we  may  rest  assured 
that  the  sermons  were  far  from  quieting  their 
fears,  or  lulling  them  into  a  skeptical  indiffer 
ence.  Indeed,  more  imposing  names  than  Sir 
Samuel  Cromwell's  appear  in  the  lists  to  do 
battle  for  cherished  superstitions.  Did  not 
the  devout  and  conscientious  Baxter  firmly  be 
lieve  in  the  powers  of  witches,  especially  after 
"  hearing  their  sad  confessions ;  "  and  was  not 
the  gentle  and  learned  Addison  more  than 
half  disposed  to  believe  in  them,  too  ?  Does 


ON  TEE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.       51 

not  Bacon  avow  that  a  "  well-regulated  "  astrol 
ogy  might  become  the  medium  of  many  bene 
ficial  truths ;  and  did  not  the  scholarly  Domin 
ican,  Stephen  of  Lusignan,  expand  the  legend 
of  Melusina  into  so  noble  a  history,  that  the 
great  houses  of  Luxembourg,  Rohan,  and  Sas« 
senaye  altered  their  pedigrees,  so  as  to  claim 
descent  from  that  illustrious  nymph?  Even 
the  Emperor  Henry  VII.  was  as  proud  of  his 
fishy  ancestress  as  was  Godfrey  de  Bouillon  of 
his  mysterious  grandsire,  Helias,  the  Knight 
of  the  Swan,  better  known  to  us  as  the  Lohen 
grin  of  Wagner's  opera ;  while  among  more 
modest  annals  appear  the  families  of  Fantome 
and  Dobie,  each  bearing  a  goblin  on  their 
crest,  in  witness  of  their  claim  to  some  shadowy 
supernatural  kinship. 

There  is  often  a  marked  contrast  between 
the  same  superstition  as  developed  in  different 
countries,  and  in  the  same  elfin  folk,  who 
please  or  terrify  us  according  to  the  gay  or  seri 
ous  bent  of  their  mortal  interpreters.  While 
the  Keltic  ourisk  is  bright  and  friendly,  with 
a  tinge  of  malice  and  a  strong  propensity  to 
blunder,  the  English  brownie  is  a  more  clever 
and  audacious  sprite,  the  Scottish  bogle  is  a 


52  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

sombre  and  dangerous  acquaintance,  and  'the 
Dutch  Hudikin  an  ungainly  counterpart  of 
Puck,  with  hardly  a  redeeming  quality,  save  a 
lumbering  fashion  of  telling  the  truth  when  it 
is  least  expected.  It  was  Hudikin  who  foretold 
the  murder  of  James  I.  of  Scotland  ;  though 
why  he  should  have  left  the  dikes  of  Holland 
for  the  bleak  Highland  hills  it  is  hard  to  say, 
more  especially  as  there  were  murders  enough 
at  home  to  keep  him  as  busy  as  Cassandra. 
So,  too,  when  the  English  witches  rode  up  the 
chimney  and  through  the  storm-gusts  to  their 
unhallowed  meetings,  they  apparently  confined 
their  attention  to  the  business  in  hand,  having 
perhaps  enough  to  occupy  them  in  managing 
their  broomstick  steeds.  But  when  the  Scot 
tish  hags  cried,  "  Horse  and  hattock  in  the 
devil's  name ! "  and  rushed  fiercely  through 
the  tempestuous  night,  the  unlucky  traveler 
crossed  himself  and  trembled,  lest  in  very 
wantonness  they  aim  their  magic  arrows  at  his 
heart.  Isobel  Gowdie  confessed  at  her  trial 
to  having  fired  in  this  manner  at  the  Laird  of 
the  Park,  as  he  rode  through  a  ford  ;  but  the 
influence  of  the  running  water  turned  her  dart 
aside,  and  she  was  soundly  cuffed  by  Bessie 


ON  THE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.      53 

Hay,  another  witch,  for  her  awkwardness  in 
choosing  such  an  unpropitious  moment.1  In 
one  respect  alone  this  evil  sisterhood  were  all 
in  harmony.  By  charms  and  spells  they  re 
venged  themselves  terribly  on  their  enemies, 
and  inflicted  malicious  injuries  on  their  friends. 
It  was  as  easy  for  them  to  sink  a  ship  in  mid- 
ocean  as  to  dry  the  milk  in  a  cow's  udder,  or 
to  make  a  strong  man  pine  away  while  his 
waxen  image  was  consumed  inch  by  inch  on 
the  witch's  smouldering  hearth. 

This  instinctive  belief  in  evil  spells  is  the 
essence,  not  of  witchcraft  only,  but  of  every 
form  of  superstition,  from  the  days  of  Thes- 
salian  magic  to  the  brutish  rites  of  the  Loui 
siana  Voodoo.  It  has  brought  to  the  scaffold 
women  of  gentle  blood,  like  Janet  Douglas, 
Lady  Glamis,  and  to  the  stake  visionary  enthu 
siasts  like  Jeanne  d'Arc.  It  confronts  us  from 
every  page  of  history,  it  stares  at  us  from  the 
columns  of  the  daily  press.  It  has  provided  an 
outlet  for  fear,  hope,  love,  and  hatred,  and  a 
weapon  for  every  passion  that  stirs  the  soul  of 
man.  It  is  equally  at  home  in  all  parts  of  the 

1  Letters  on  Demonology  and  Witchcraft.     By  Sir  Walte* 
Scott. 


54  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

world,  and  has  entered  freely  into  the  religion, 
the  traditions,  and  the  folk-lore  of  all  nations. 
Action  flying  as  a  stag  from  the  pursuit  of 
his  own  hounds ;  Circe's  swinish  captives 
groveling  at  their  troughs ;  Bjorn  turned  into 
a  bear  through  the  malice  of  his  stepmother, 
and  hunted  to  death  by  his  father,  King 
Hring  ;  the  Swans  of  Lir  floating  mournfully 
on  the  icy  waters  of  the  Moyle ;  the  loup- 
garou  lurking  in  the  forests  of  Brittany,  and 
the  oborot  coursing  over  the  Russian  steppes  ; 
Merlin  sleeping  in  the  gloomy  depths  of  Broce- 
liande,  and  Raknar  buried  fifty  fathoms  below 
the  coast  of  Helluland,  are  alike  the  victims 

' '  Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands.' ' 

whether  the  spell  be  cast  by  an  outraged  divin 
ity,  or  by  the  cruel  hand  of  a  malignant  foe. 

In  1857,  Mr.  Newton  discovered  at  Cnidos 
fragments  of  a  buried  and  ruined  chapel, 
sacred  to  Demeter  and  Persephone.  In  it 
were  three  marble  figures  of  great  beauty, 
some  small  votive  images  of  baked  earth,  sev- 
feral  bronze  lamps,  and  a  number  of  thin  leaden 
rolls,  pierced  with  holes  for  the  convenience  of 
hanging  them  around  the  chapel  walls.  On 
these  rolls  were  inscribed  the  dira3,  or  spells, 


ON   THE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.       55 

devoting  some  enemy  to  the  infernal  gods,  and 
the  motive  for  the  suppliant's  ill-will  was  given 
with  great  naivete  and  earnestness.  One 
woman  binds  another  who  has  lured  away  her 
lover  ;  a  second,  the  enemy  who  has  accused 
her  of  poisoning  her  husband  ;  a  third,  the 
thief  who  has  stolen  her  bracelet ;  a  fourth, 
the  man  who  has  robbed  her  of  a  favorite 
drinking-horn  ;  a  fifth,  the  acquaintance  who 
has  failed  to  return  a  borrowed  garment ;  and 
so  on  through  a  long  list  of  grievances.1  It 
is  evident  this  form  of  prayer  was  quite  a  com 
mon  occurrence,  and,  as  combining  a  religious 
rite  with  a  comfortable  sense  of  retaliation, 
must  have  been  exceptionally  soothing  to  the 
worshiper's  mind.  Persephone  was  appeased 
and  their  own  wrongs  atoned  for  by  this  simple 
act  of  devotion  ;  and  would  that  it  were  given 
to  us  now  to  inscribe,  and  by  inscribing  doom, 
all  those  who  have  borrowed  and  failed  to  re 
turn  our  books  ;  would  that  by  scribbling  some 
strong  language  on  a  piece  of  lead  we  could 
avenge  the  lamentable  gaps  on  our  shelves, 
and  send  the  ghosts  of  the  wrong-doers  howling 
dismally  into  the  eternal  shades  of  Tartarus. 
1  The  Myth  of  Demeter  and  Persephone.  By  Walter  Pater. 


56  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

The  saddest  thing  about  these  faded  super 
stitions  is  that  the  very  men  who  have  studied 
them  most  accurately  are  often  least  suscep 
tible  to  their  charms.  In  their  eagerness  to 
trace  back  every  myth  to  a  common  origin, 
and  to  prove,  with  or  without  reason,  that  they 
one  and  all  arose  from  the  observation  of 
natural  phenomena,  too  many  writers  either 
overlook  entirely  the  beauty  and  meaning  of 
the  tale,  or  treat  it  with  a  contemptuous  in 
difference  very  hard  to  understand.  Mr.  Bar 
ing-Gould,  a  most  honorable  exception  to  this 
evil  rule,  takes  occasion  now  and  then  to  deal 
some  telling  blows  at  the  extravagant  theorists 
who  persist  in  maintaining  that  every  tradition 
bears  its  significance  on  its  surface,  and  who, 
following  up  their  preconceived  opinions, 
cruelly  overtax  the  credulity  of  their  readers. 
He  himself  has  shown  conclusively  that  many 
Aryan  myths  are  but  allegorical  representa 
tions  of  natural  forces  ;  but  in  these  cases  the 
connection  is  always  distinctly  traced  and 
easily  understood.  It  is  not  hard  for  any  of  us 
to  perceive  the  likeness  between  the  worm 
Schamir,  the  hand  of  glory,  and  the  lightning, 
when  their  peculiar  properties  are  so  much 


ON  THE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.      57 

alike  ;  or  to  behold  in  the  Sleeping  Beauty  or 
Thorn-Rose  the  ice-bound  earth  slumbering 
through  the  long  winter  months,  until  the  sun- 
god's  kisses  win  her  back  to  life  and  warmth. 
But  when  we  are  asked  to  believe  that  Wil 
liam  Tell  is  the  storm-cloud,  with  his  arrow  of 
lightning  and  his  iris  bow  bent  against  the  sun, 
which  is  resting  like  a  coin  or  a  golden  apple 
on  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  we  cannot  but  feel, 
with  the  author  of  Curious  Myths,  that  a  little 
too  much  is  exacted  from  us.  "  I  must  pro 
test,"  he  says,  "  against  the  manner  in  which 
our  German  friends  fasten  rapaciously  upon 
every  atom  of  history,  sacred  and  profane,  and 
demonstrate  all  heroes  to  represent  the  sun  ; 
all  villains  to  be  the  demons  of  night  or  win 
ter  ;  all  sticks  and  spears  and  arrows  to  be  the 
lightning ;  all  cows  and  sheep  and  dragons 
and  swans  to  be  clouds." 

But  then  it  must  be  remembered  that  Mr. 
Baring-Gould  is  the  most  tolerant  and  catholic 
of  writers,  with  hardly  a  hobby  he  can  call  his 
own.  Sympathizing  with  the  sad  destruction 
of  William  Tell,  he  casts  a  lance  in  honor  of 
Saint  George  against  Reynolds  and  Gibbon, 
and  manifests  a  lurking  weakness  for  mer- 


58  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

maids,  divining-rods,  and  the  Wandering  Jew. 
He  is  to  be  congratulated  on  his  early  training, 
for  he  assures  us  he  believed,  on  the  testimony 
of  his  Devonshire  nurse,  that  all  Cornishnien 
had  tails,  until  a  Cornish  bookseller  stoutly 
denied  the  imputation,  and  enlightened  his  in 
fant  mind.  He  has  the  rare  and  happy  faculty 
of  writing  upon  all  mythical  subjects  with 
grace,  sympathy,  and  vraisemblance.  Even 
when  there  can  be  no  question  of  credulity 
either  with  himself  or  with  his  readers,  he  is 
yet  content  to  write  as  though  for  the  time  he 
believes.  Just  as  Mr.  Birrell  advises  us  to  lay 
aside  our  moral  sense  when  we  begin  the  mem 
oirs  of  an  attractive  scamp,  and  to  recall  it 
carefully  when  we  have  finished,  so  Mr.  Bar 
ing-Gould  generously  lays  aside  his  enlightened 
skepticism  when  he  undertakes  to  tell  us  about 
sirens  and  were-wolves,  and  remembers  that  he 
is  of  the  nineteenth  century  only  when  his 
task  is  done. 

This  is  precisely  what  Mr.  John  Fiske  is  un 
able  or  unwilling  to  accomplish.  He  cannot 
for  a  moment  forget  how  much  better  he 
knows ;  and  instead  of  an  indulgent  smile  at 
the  delightful  follies  of  our  ancestorsr  we  de- 


ON  THE  BENEFITS  OF  SUPERSTITION.       59 

tect  here  and  there  through  his  very  valuable 
pages  something  unpleasantly  like  a  sneer. 
"  Where  the  modern  calmly  taps  his  forehead," 
explains  Mr.  Fiske,  "  and  says,  '  Arrested 
development ! '  the  terrified  ancient  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  and  cried,  '  Were-wolf  !  '  "  l 
Now  a  more  disagreeable  object  than  the 
"  modern "  tapping  his  forehead,  like  Dr. 
Blimber,  and  offering  a  sensible  elucidation  of 
every  mystery,  it  would  be  hard  to  find.  The 
ignorant  peasant  making  his  sign  of  the  cross 
is  not  only  more  picturesque,  but  he  is  more 
companionable,  —  in  books,  at  least,  —  and  it 
is  of  far  greater  interest  to  try  to  realize  how 
he  felt  when  the  specimen  of  "  arrested  devel 
opment  "  stole  past  him  in  the  shadow  of  the 
woods.  There  is,  after  all,  a  mysterious 
horror  about  the  lame  boy,  —  some  impish 
changeling  of  evil  parentage,  foisted  on  hell, 
perhaps,  as  Nadir  thrust  his  earth-born  baby 
into  heaven,  —  who  every  Midsummer  Night 
and  every  Christmas  Eve  summoned  the  were 
wolves  to  their  secret  meeting,  whence  they 
rushed  ravenously  over  the  German  forests. 
The  girdle  of  human  skin,  three  finger-breadths 

1  Myths  and  Mythi.iakers. 


60  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

wide,  which  wrought  the  transformation  ;  the 
telltale  hairs  in  the  hollow  of  the  hand 
which  betrayed  the  wolfish  nature ;  the  fatality 
which  doomed  one  of  every  seven  sisters  to 
this  dreadful  enchantment,  and  the  trifling 
accidents  which  brought  about  the  same  un 
desirable  result  are  so  many  handles  by  which 
we  grasp  the  strange  emotions  that  swayed 
the  mediaeval  man.  Jacque  Roulet  and  Jean 
Grenier,1  as  mere  maniacs  and  cannibals,  fill 
eveiy  heart  with  disgust ;  but  as  were-wolves 
an  awful  mystery  wraps  them  round,  and  the 
mind  is  distracted  from  pity  for  their  victims 
to  a  fascinated  consideration  of  their  own 
tragic  doom.  A  blood-thirsty  idiot  is  an  ob 
ject  that  no  one  cares  to  think  about ;  but  a 
wolf-fiend,  urged  to  deeds  of  violence  by  an 
impulse  he  cannot  resist,  is  one  of  those  ghastly 
creations  that  the  folk-lore  of  every  country 
has  placed  sharply  and  persistently  before  our 
startled  eyes.  Yet  surely  there  is  a  touch  of 
comedy  in  the  story  told  by  Van  Hahn,  of  an 
unlucky  freemason,  who,  having  divulged  the 
secrets  of  his  order,  was  pursued  across  the 
Pyrenees  by  the  master  of  his  lodge  in  the 

1  Book  of  Were-  Wolves.     By  Baring-Gould. 


ON  THE  BENEFITS   OF  SUPERSTITION.       61 

form  of  a  were-wolf,  and  escaped  only  by 
taking  refuge  in  an  empty  cottage,  and  hiding 
under  the  bed. 

"  To  us  who  are  nourished  from  childhood," 
says  Mr.  Fiske  again,  "  on  the  truths  revealed 
by  science,  the  sky  is  known  to  be  merely  an 
optical  appearance,  due  to  the  partial  absorp 
tion  of  the  solar  rays  in  passing  through  a 
thick  stratum  of  atmospheric  air ;  the  clouds 
are  known  to  be  large  masses  of  watery  vapor, 
which  descend  in  rain-drops  when  sufficiently 
condensed  ;  and  the  lightning  is  known  to  be 
a  flash  of  light  accompanying  an  electric  dis 
charge."  But  the  blue  sky-sea  of  Aryan  folk 
lore,  in  which  the  cloud-flakes  floated  as  stately 
swans,  drew  many  an  eye  to  the  contemplation 
of  its  loveliness,  and  touched  many  a  heart 
with  the  sacred  charm  of  beauty.  On  that 
mysterious  sea  strange  vessels  sailed  from  un 
known  shores,  and  once  a  mighty  anchor  was 
dropped  by  the  sky  mariners,  and  fell  right 
into  a  little  English  graveyard,  to  the  great 
amazement  of  the  humble  congregation  just 
coming  out  from  church.  The  sensation  of 
freedom  and  space  afforded  by  this  conception 
of  the  heavens  is  a  delicious  contrast  to  the 
conceit  of  the  Persian  poet,  — 


62  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

"  That  inverted  Bowl  they  call  the  Sky, 
Whereunder  crawling  cooped  we  live  and  die  ;  ' ' 

or  to  the  Semitic  legend,  which  described  the 
firmament  as  made  of  hammered  plate,  with 
little  windows  for  rain,  —  a  device  so  poor  and 
barbaric,  that  we  wonder  how  any  man  could 
look  up  into  the  melting  blue  and  admit  such 
a  sordid  fancy  into  his  soul. 

"  Scientific  knowledge,  even  in  the  most 
modest  men,"  confesses  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes,  "  has  mingled  with  it  something 
which  partakes  of  insolence.  Absolute,  per 
emptory  facts  are  bullies,  and  those  who  keep 
company  with  them  are  apt  to  get  a  bullying 
habit  of  mind."  Such  an  admission  from  so 
genial  and  kindly  a  source*  should  suffice  to 
put  us  all  on  the  defensive.  It  is  not  agree 
able  to  be  bullied  even  upon  those  matters 
which  are  commonly  classed  as  facts  ;  but  when 
we  come  to  the  misty  region  of  dreams  and 
myths  and  superstitions,  let  us  remember, 
with  Lamb,  that  "  we  do  not  know  the  laws  of 
that  country,"  and  with  him  generously  for 
bear  to  "  set  down  our  ancestors  in  the  gross 
for  fools."  We  have  lost  forever  the  fantasies 
that  enriched  them.  Not  for  us  are  the  pink 


ON  THE  BENEFITS  OF  SUPERSTITION.       63 

and  white  lions  that  gamboled  in  the  land  of 
Prester  John,  nor  his  onyx  floors,  imparting 
courage  to  all  who  trod  on  them.  Not  for  us 
the  Terrestrial  Paradise,  with  its  "  Welle  of 
Youthe,  whereat  thei  that  drynken  semen  alle 
weys  yongly,  and  lyven  withouten  sykeness  ;  "  1 
nor  the  Fortunate  Isles  beyond  the  Western 
Sea,  where  spring  was  -  ever  green ;  where 
youths  and  maidens  danced  hand  in  hand  on 
the  dewy  grass,  where  the  cows  ungrudgingly 
gave  milk  enough  to  fill  whole  ponds  instead  of 
milking-pails,  and  where  wizards  and  usurers 
could  never  hope  to  enter.  The  doors  of  these 
enchanted  spots  are  closed  upon  us,  and  their 
key,  like  Excalibur,  lies  hidden  where  no  hand 
can  grasp  it. 

"  The  whole  wide  world  is  painted  gray  on  gray, 
And  Wonderland  forever  is  gone  past." 

All  we  can  do  is  to  realize  our  loss  with  be 
coming  modesty,  and  now  and  then  cast  back 
a  wistful  glance 

"  where  underneath 

The  shelter  of  the  quaint  kiosk,  there  sigh 
A  troup  of  Fancy's  little  China  Dolls, 

Who  dream  and  dream,  with  damask  round  their  loins, 

And  in  their  hands  a  golden  tulip  flower." 

1  Travels  of  Sir  John  Mandeville. 


WHAT  CHILDREN  READ. 

IT  is  part  of  the  irony  of  life  that  our  dis 
criminating  taste  for  books  should  be  built 
up  on  the  ashes  of  an  extinct  enjoyment.  We 
spend  a  great  deal  of  our  time  in  learning  what 
literature  is  good,  and  a  great  deal  more  in  at 
tuning  our  minds  to  its  reception,  rightly  con 
vinced  that,  by  the  training  of  our  intellectual 
faculties,  we  are  unlocking  one  of  the  doors 
through  which  sweetness  and  light  may  enter. 
We  are  fond  of  reading,  too,  and  have  always 
maintained  with  Macaulay  that  we  would 
rather  be  a  poor  man  with  books  than  a  great 
king  without,  though  luckily  for  our  resolu 
tion,  and  perhaps  for  his,  such  a  choice  has 
never  yet  been  offered.  Books,  we  say,  are 
our  dearest  friends,  and  so,  with  true  friendly 
acuteness,  we  are  prompt  to  discover  their 
faults,  and  take  great  credit  in  our  ingenuity. 
But  all  this  time,  somewhere  about  the  house, 
curled  up,  may  be,  in  a  nursery  window,  or 
hidden  in  a  freezing  attic,  a  child  is  poring 


WHAT  CHILDREN  READ.  65 

over  The  Three  Musketeers,  lost  to  any  con 
sciousness  of  his  surroundings,  incapable  of  an 
alyzing  his  emotions,  breathless  with  mingled 
fear  and  exultation  over  his  heroes'  varying 
fortunes,  and  drinking  in  a  host  of  vivid  im 
pressions  that  are  absolutely  ineffaceable  from 
his  mind.  We  cannot  read  in  that  fashion 
any  longer,  but  we  only  wish  we  could. 
Thackeray  used  to  sigh  in  middle  age  over  the 
lost  delights  of  rive  shillings'  worth  of  pastry ; 
but  what  was  the  pleasure  of  eating  tarts  to 
the  glamour  cast  over  us  by  our  first  romance, 
to  the  enchanted  hours  we  spent  with  Sintram 
by  the  sea-shore,  or  with  Nydia  in  the  dark 
ened  streets  of  Pompeii,  or  perhaps  —  if  we 
were  not  too  carefully  watched  —  with  Emily 
in  those  dreadful  vaults  beneath  Udolpho's 
walls ! 

Nor  is  it  fiction  only  that  strongly  excites 
the  imagination  of  a  child.  History  is  not  to 
him  what  it  is  to  us,  a  tangle  of  disputed 
facts,  doubtful  theories,  and  conflicting  evi 
dence.  He  grasps  its  salient  points  with  sim 
ple  directness,  absorbs  them  into  his  mind 
with  tolerable  accuracy,  and  passes  judgment 
on  them  with  enviable  ease.  To  him,  histori- 


66  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

cal  characters  are  at  least  as  real  as  those  of 
romance,  which  they  are  very  far  from  being 
to  us,  and  he  enters  into  their  impressions  and 
motives  with  a  facile  sympathy  which  we 
rarely  feel.  Not  only  does  he  firmly  believe 
that  Marcus  Curtius  leaped  into  the  gulf,  but 
he  has  not  yet  learned  to  question  the  expedi 
ency  of  the  act ;  and,  having  never  been  en 
lightened  by  Mr.  Grote,  the  black  broth  of 
Lykurgus  is  as  much  a  matter  of  fact  to  him 
as  the  bread  and  butter  upon  his  own  break 
fast  table.  Sir  Walter  Scott  tells  us  that  even 
the  dinner-bell  —  most  welcome  sound  to  boy 
ish  ears  —  failed  to  win  him  from  his  rapt  pe 
rusal  of  Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry ; 
but  Gibbon,  as  a  lad,  found  the  passage  of  the 
Goths  over  the  Danube  just  as  engrossing, 
and,  stifling  the  pangs  of  hunger,  preferred  to 
linger  fasting  in  their  company.  The  great 
historian's  early  love  for  history  has  furnished 
Mr.  Bagehot  with  one  more  proof  of  the  fasci 
nation  of  such  records  for  the  youthful  mind, 
and  he  bids  us  at  the  same  time  consider  from 
what  a  firm  and  tangible  standpoint  it  regards 
them.  "  Youth,"  he  writes,  "  has  a  principle 
of  consolidation.  In  history,  the  whole  comes 


WHAT  CHILDREN  READ.  67 

in  boyhood ;  the  details  later,  and  in  manhood. 
The  wonderful  series  going  far  back  to  the 
times  of  old  patriarchs  with  their  flocks  and 
herds,  the  keen-eyed  Greek,  the  stately  Roman, 
the  watchful  Jew,  the  uncouth  Goth,  the  hor 
rid  Hun,  the  settled  picture  of  the  unchanging 
East,  the  restless  shifting  of  the  rapid  West, 
the  rise  of  the  cold  and  classical  civilization, 
its  fall,  the  rough,  impetuous  Middle  Ages, 
the  vague  warm  picture  of  ourselves  and  home, 
—  when  did  we  learn  these  ?  Not  yesterday, 
nor  to-day,  but  long  ago,  in  the  first  dawn  of 
reason,  in  the  original  flow  of  fancy.  What 
we  learn  afterwards  are  but  the  accurate  little 
nesses  of  the  great  topic,  the  dates  and  tedious 
facts.  Those  who  begin  late  learn  only  these ; 
but  the  happy  first  feel  the  mystic  associations 
and  the  progress  of  the  whole."  1 

If  this  be  true,  and  the  child's  mind  be  not 
only  singularly  alive  to  new  impressions,  but 
quick  to  concentrate  its  knowledge  into  a  con 
sistent  whole,  the  value  and  importance  of  his 
early  reading  can  hardly  be  overestimated. 
That  much  anxiety  has  been  felt  upon  the  sub 
ject  is  proven  by  the  cry  of  self-congratulation 

1  Literary  Studies,  vol.  ii. 


68  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

that  rises  on  every  side  of  us  to-day.     We  are 
on  the  right  track  at  last,  the  press  and  the 
publishers  assure  us  ;  and  with  tons  of  healthy 
juvenile  literature  flooding  the  markets  every 
year,  our  American  boys  and  girls  stand  fully 
equipped  for  the  intellectual  battles  of  life. 
But  if  we  will  consider  the  matter  in  a  dis 
passionate  and  less    boastful  light,  we  shall 
see  that  the  good  accomplished  is  mainly  of  a 
negative  character.     By  providing  cheap  and 
wholesome    reading  for   the  young,   we  have 
partly  succeeded  in  driving  from  the  field  that 
which  was  positively  bad ;  yet  nothing  is  easier 
than  to  overdo  a  reformation,   and,  through 
the  characteristic  indulgence  of  American  par 
ents,  children  are  drugged  with  a  literature 
whose  chief  merit  is  its  harmlessness.     These 
little  volumes,  nicely  written,  nicely  printed, 
and  nicely  illustrated,  are  very  useful  in  their 
way ;  but   they   are    powerless  to  awaken    a 
child's  imagination,  or  to  stimulate  his  mental 
growth.     If     stories,    they    merely   introduce 
him  to  a  phase  of  life  with  which  he  is  already 
familiar ;  if  historical,   they  aim  at    showing 
him  a  series  of  detached  episodes,  broken  pic 
tures  of  the  mighty  whole,  shorn  of  its  "  mys- 


WHAT   CHILDREN  READ.  69 

tic  associations,"  and  stirring  within  his  soul 
no  stronger  impulse  than  that  of  a  cheaply 
gratified  curiosity. 

Not  that  children's  books  are  to  be  neglected 
or  contemned.  On  the  contrary,  they  are  al 
ways  helpful,  and  in  the  average  nursery  have 
grown  to  be  a  recognized  necessity.  But  when 
supplied  with  a  too  lavish  hand,  a  child  is 
tempted  to  read  nothing  else,  and  his  mind  be 
comes  shrunken  for  lack  of  a  vigorous  stimu 
lant  to  excite  and  expand  it.  "  Children," 
wrote  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "  derive  impulses  of  a 
powerful  and  important  kind  from  hearing 
things  that  they  cannot  entirely  comprehend. 
It  is  a  mistake  to  write  down  to  their  under 
standing.  Set  them  on  the  scent,  and  let 
them  puzzle  it  out."  Sir  Walter  himself,  be 
it  observed,  in  common  with  most  little  people 
of  genius,  got  along  strikingly  well  without 
any  juvenile  literature  at  all.  He  shouted  the 
ballad  of  Hardyknute,  to  the  great  annoyance 
of  his  aunt's  visitors,  long  before  he  knew  how 
to  read,  and  listened  at  his  grandmother's 
knee  to  her  stirring  tales  about  Watt  of  Har 
den,  Wight  Willie  of  Aikwood,  Jamie  Telfer 
of  the  fair  Dodhead,  and  a  host  of  border 


70  BOOKS  AND  MEN 

heroes  whose  picturesque  robberies  were  the 
glory  of  their  sober  and  respectable  descend 
ants.  Two  or  three  old  books  which  lay  in  the 
window-seat  were  explored  for  his  amusement 
in  the  dreary  winter  days.  Ramsay's  Tea-Ta 
ble  Miscellany,  a  mutilated  copy  of  Josephus, 
and  Pope's  translation  of  the  Iliad  appear  to 
have  been  his  favorites,  until,  when  about 
eight  years  old,  a  happy  chance  threw  him 
under  the  spell  of  the  two  great  poets  who 
have  swayed  most  powerfully  the  pliant  imag 
inations  of  the  young.  "  I  found,"  he  writes 
in  his  early  memoirs,  "  within  my  mother's 
dressing-room  (where  I  slept  at  one  time) 
some  odd  volumes  of  Shakespeare  ;  nor  can  I 
easily  forget  the  rapture  with  which  I  sate  up 
in  my  shirt  reading  them  by  the  light  of  a  fire 
in  her  apartment,  until  the  bustle  of  the  family 
rising  from  supper  warned  me  it  was  time  to 
ci'eep  back  to  my  bed,  where  I  was  supposed 
to  have  been  safely  deposited  since  nine 
o'clock."  And  a  little  later  he  adds,  "  Spen 
ser  I  could  have  read  forever.  Too  young  to 
trouble  myself  about  the  allegory,  I  consid 
ered  all  the  knights,  and  ladies,  and  dragons, 
and  giants  in  their  outward  and  exoteric  sense, 


WHAT  CHILDREN  READ.  71 

and  Heaven  only  knows  how  delighted  I  was 
to  find  myself  in  such  society !  " 

"  How  much  of  our  poetry,"  it  has  been 
asked,  "  owes  its  start  to  Spenser,  when  the 
Fairy  Queen  was  a  household  book,  and  lay  in 
the  parlor  window-seat  ?  "  And  how  many 
brilliant  fancies  have  emanated  from  those 
same  window-seats,  which  Montaigne  so  keen 
ly  despised  ?  There,  where  the  smallest  child 
could  climb  with  ease,  lay  piled  up  in  a  cor 
ner,  within  the  reach  of  his  little  hands,  the 
few  precious  volumes  which  perhaps  comprised 
the  literary  wealth  of  the  household.  Those 
were  not  days  when  over-indulgence  and  a 
multiplicity  of  books  robbed  reading  of  its 
healthy  zest.  We  know  that  in  the  window- 
seat  of  Cowley's  mother's  room  lay  a  copy  of 
the  Fairy  Queen,  which  to  her  little  son  was  a 
source  of  unfailing  delight,  and  Pope  has  re 
corded  the  ecstasy  with  which,  as  a  lad,  he 
pored  over  this  wonderful  poem  ;  but  then 
neither  Cowley  nor  Pope  had  the  advantage 
of  following  Oliver  Optic  through  the  slums 
of  New 'York,  or  living  with  some  adventur 
ous  "  boy  hunters  "  in  the  jungles  of  Central 
Africa.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  deli- 


72  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

cious  account  of  Bentham,  in  his  early  child 
hood,  climbing  to  the  height  of  a  huge  stool, 
and  sitting  there  night  after  night  reading 
Rapin's  history  by  the  light  of  two  candles ;  a 
weird  little  figure,  whose  only  counterpart  in 
literature  is  the  small  John  Ruskin  propped 
up  solemnly  in  his  niche,  "  like  an  idol,"  and 
hemmed  in  from  the  family  reach  by  the  table 
on  which  his  book  reposed.  It  is  quite  evi 
dent  that  Bentham  found  the  mental  nutrition 
he  wanted  in  Rapin's  rather  dreary  pages, 
just  as  Pope  and  Cowley  found  it  in  Spenser, 
Ruskin  in  the  Iliad,  and  Burns  in  the  marvel 
ous  stories  told  by  that  "  most  ignorant  and 
superstitious  old  woman,"  who  made  the  poet 
afraid  of  his  own  shadow,  and  who,  as 
he  afterwards  freely  acknowledged,  fanned 
within  his  soul  the  kindling  flame  of  genius. 

Look  where  we  will,  we  find  the  author's 
future  work  reflected  in  the  intellectual  pas 
times  of  his  childhood.  Madame  de  Genlis, 
when  but  six  years  old,  perused  with  un 
flagging  interest  the  ten  solid  volumes  of 
Clelie,  —  a  task  which  would  appall  the  most 
stout-hearted  novel-reader  of  to-day.  Gibbon 
turned  as  instinctively  to  facts  as  Scott  and 


WHAT   CHILDREN  READ.  73 

Burns  to  fiction.  Macaulay  surely  learned 
from  his  beloved  ^Eneid  the  art  of  presenting 
a  dubious  statement  with  all  the  vigorous  col 
oring  of  truth.  Wordsworth  congratulated 
himself  and  Coleridge  that,  as  children,  they 
had  ranged  at  will 

"  through  vales 

Rich  with  indigenous  produce,  open  grounds 
Of  fancy ;  " 

Coleridge,  in  his  turn,  was  wont  to  express 
his  sense  of  superiority  over  those  who  had 
not  read  fairy  tales  when  they  were  young, 
and  Charles  Lamb,  who  was  plainly  of  the 
same  way  of  thinking,  wrote  to  him  hotly  on 
the  subject  of  the  "  cursed  Barbauld  crew," 
and  demanded  how  he  would  ever  have  be 
come  a  poet,  if,  instead  of  being  fed  with 
tales  and  old  wives'  fables  in  his  infancy,  he 
had  been  crammed  with  geography,  natural 
history,  and  other  useful  information.  What 
a  picture  we  have  of  Cardinal  Newman's  sen 
sitive  and  flexible  mind  in  these  few  words 
which  bear  witness  to  his  childish  musings  I 
"  I  used  to  wish,"  he  says  in  the  third  chapter 
of  the  Apologia,  "that  the  Arabian  Nights 
were  true ;  my  imagination  ran  on  unknown 


74  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

influences,  on  magical  powers  and  talismans. 
...  I  thought  life  might  be  a  dream,  or  I 
an  angel,  and  all  the  world  a  deception,  my 
fellow  angels,  by  a  playful  device,  concealing 
themselves  from  me,  and  deceiving  me  with 
the  semblance  of  a  material  world."  Along 
side  of  this  poetic  revelation  may  be  placed 
Cobbett's  sketch  of  himself  :  a  sturdy  country 
lad  of  eleven,  in  a  blue  smock  and  red  gar 
ters,  standing  before  the  bookseller's  shop  in 
Richmond,  with  an  empty  stomach,  three 
pence  in  his  pocket,  and  a  certain  little  book 
called  The  Tale  of  a  Tub  contending  with  his 
hunger  for  the  possession  of  that  last  bit  of 
money.  In  the  end,  mind  conquered  matter  : 
the  threepence  was  invested  in  the  volume, 
and  the  homeless  little  reader  curled  himself 
under  a  haystack,  and  forgot  all  about  his 
supper  in  the  strange,  new  pleasure  he  was 
enjoying.  "  The  book  was  so  different,"  he 
writes,  "  from  anything  that  I  had  ever  read 
before,  it  was  something  so  fresh  to  my  mind, 
that,  though  I  could  not  understand  some 
parts  of  it,  it  delighted  me  beyond  descrip 
tion,  and  produced  what  I  have  always  consid 
ered  a  sort  of  birth  of  intellect.  I  read  on  till 


WHAT  CHILDREN  READ.  75 

it  was  dark,  without  any  thought  of  food  or 
bed.  When  I  could  see  no  longer,  I  put  my 
little  book  in  my  pocket  and  tumbled  down 
by  the  side  of  the  stack,  where  I  slept  till  the 
birds  of  Kew  Gardens  awakened  me  in  the 
morning.  ...  I  carried  that  volume  about 
with  me  wherever  I  went ;  and  when  I  lost  it 
in  a  box  that  fell  overboard  in  the  Bay  of 
Fundy,  the  loss  gave  me  greater  pain  than  I 
have  since  felt  at  losing  thousands  of  pounds." 
As  for  Lamb's  views  on  the  subject  of 
early  reading,  they  are  best  expressed  in  his 
triumphant  vindication  of  Bridget  Elia's  hap 
pily  neglected  education  :  "  She  was  tumbled 
by  accident  or  design  into  a  spacious  closet  of 
good  old  English  books,  without  much  selec 
tion  or  prohibition,  and  browsed  at  will  upon 
that  fair  and  wholesome  pasturage.  Had  I 
twenty  girls  they  should  be  brought  up  ex 
actly  in  this  fashion."  It  is  natural  that  but 
few  parents  are  anxious  to  risk  so  hazardous 
an  experiment,  especially  as  the  training  of 
"  incomparable  old  maids  "  is  hardly  the  rec 
ognized  summit  of  maternal  ambition ;  but 
Bridget  Elia  at  least  ran  no  danger  of  intel 
lectual  starvation,  while,  if  we  pursue  a  mod- 


76  BOOKS  AND   MEN. 

ern  school-girl  along  the  track  of  her  self- 
chosen  reading,  we  shall  be  astonished  that  so 
much  printed  matter  can  yield  so  little  mental 
nourishment.  She  has  begun,  no  doubt,  with 
childish  stories,  bright  and  well-written, 
probably,  but  following  each  other  in  such 
quick  succession  that  none  of  them  have  left 
any  distinct  impression  on  her  mind.  Books 
that  children  read  but  once  are  of  scant  ser 
vice  to  them;  those  that  have  really  helped 
to  warm  our  imaginations  and  to  train  our 
faculties  are  the  few  old  friends  we  know 
so  well  that  they  have  become  a  portion  of 
our  thinking  selves.  At  ten  or  twelve  the 
little  girl  aspires  to  something  partly  grown 
up,  to  those  nondescript  tales  which,  trem 
bling  ever  on  the  brink  of  sentiment,  seem 
afraid  to  risk  the  plunge  ;  and  with  her  appe 
tite  whetted  by  a  course  of  this  unsatisfying 
diet,  she  is  soon  ripe  for  a  little  more  excite 
ment  and  a  great  deal  more  love-making, 
so  graduates  into  Rhoda  Broughton  and  the 
"  Duchess,"  at  which  point  her  intellectual 
career  is  closed.  She  has  no  idea,  even,  of 
what  she  has  missed  in  the  world  of  books. 
She  tells  you  that  she  "  don 't  care  for  Dick- 


WHAT   CHILDREN  READ.  77 

ens,"  and  "  can't  get  interested  in  Scott," 
with  a  placidity  that  plainly  shows  she  lays 
the  blame  for  this  state  of  affairs  on  the  two 
great  masters  who  have  amused  and  charmed 
the  world.  As  for  Northanger  Abbey,  or 
Emma,  she  would  as  soon  think  of  finding 
entertainment  in  Henry  Esmond.  She  has 
probably  never  read  a  single  masterpiece  of 
our  language  ;  she  has  never  been  moved  by  a 
noble  poem,  or  stirred  to  the  quick  by  a  well- 
told  page  of  history ;  she  has  never  opened 
the  pores  of  her  mind  for  the  reception  of  a 
vigorous  thought,  or  the  solution  of  a  mental 
problem  ;  yet  she  may  be  found  daily  in  the 
circulating  library,  and  is  seldom  visible  on 
the  street  without  a  book  or  two  under  her 
arm. 

"  In  the  love-novels  all  the  heroines  are  very 
desperate,"  wrote  little  Marjorie  Fleming  in 
her  diary,  nearly  eighty  years  ago,  and  added 
somewhat  plaintively,  "  Isabella  will  not  allow 
me  to  speak  of  lovers  and  heroins,"  —  yearn 
ing,  as  we  can  see,  over  the  forbidden  topic, 
and  mutable  in  her  spelling,  as  befits  her  ten 
der  age.  But  what  books  had  she  read,  this 
bright-eyed,  healthy,  winsome  little  girl,  — 


78  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

eight  years  old  when  she  died,  —  the  favorite 
companion  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  his  com 
fort  in  many  a  moment  of  fatigue  and  depres 
sion  ?  We  can  follow  her  path  easily  enough, 
thanks  to  those  delicious,  misspelt  scrawls  in 
which  she  has  recorded  her  childish  verdicts. 
"Thomson  is  a  beautiful  author,"  she  writes 
at  six,  "  and  Pope,  but  nothing  to  Shakespear, 
of  which  I  have  a  little  knolege.  Macbeth  is 
a  pretty  composition,  but  awful  one.  .  .  .  The 
Newgate  Calender  is  very  instructive."  And 
again,  "  Tom  Jones  and  Grey's  Elegy  in  a 
country  churchyard,"  surely  never  classed  to 
gether  before,  "  are  both  excellent,  and  much 
spoke  of  by  both  sex,  particularly  by  the 
men.  .  .  .  Doctor  Swift's  works  are  very 
funny ;  I  got  some  of  them  by  heart.  .  .  . 
Miss  Egward's  [Edgeworth's]  tails  are  very 
good,  particularly  some  that  are  much  adapted 
for  youth,  as  Laz  Lawrance  and  Tarleton." 
Then  with  a  sudden  jump,  "  I  am  reading  the 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  I  am  much  interested 
in  the  fate  of  poor  poor  Emily.  .  .  .  More- 
head's  sermons  are,  I  hear,  much  praised,  but 
I  never  read  sermons  of  any  kind ;  but  I  read 
novelettes  and  my  Bible,  and  I  never  forget 
it  or  my  prayers." 


WHAT  CHILDREN  READ.  79 

It  is  apparent  that  she  read  a  great  deal 
which  would  now  hardly  be  considered  desir 
able  for  little  girls,  but  who  can  quarrel  with 
the  result  ?  Had  the  bright  young  mind  been 
starved  on  Dotty  Dimple  and  Little  Prudy 
books,  we  might  have  missed  the  quaintest  bit 
of  autobiography  in  the  English  tongue,  those 
few  scattered  pages  which,  with  her  scraps  of 
verse  and  tender  little  letters,  were  so  care 
fully  preserved  by  a  loving  sister  after  Pet 
Maidie's  death.  Far  too  young  and  innocent 
to  be  harmed  by  Tom  Jones  or  the  "  funny  " 
Doctor  Swift,  we  may  perhaps  doubt  whether 
she  had  penetrated  very  deeply  into  the  New 
gate  Calendar,  notwithstanding  a  further  as 
sertion  on  her  part  that  "  the  history  of  all  the 
malcontents  as  ever  was  hanged  is  amusing." 
But  that  she  had  the  "  little  knoleg-e "  she 

o 

boasted  of  Shakespeare  is  proven  by  the  fact 
that  her  recitations  from  .King  John  affected 
Scott,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  as  nothing  else 
could  do."  He  would  sob  outright  when  the 
little  creature  on  his  knee  repeated,  quivering 
with  suppressed  emotion,  those  heart-breaking 
words  of  Constance  :  — 


80  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

"  For  I  am  sick  and  capable  of  fears, 
Oppressed  with  wrong,  and  therefore  full  of  fears;  " 

and,  knowing  the  necessity  of  relaxing  a  mind 
so  highly  wrought,  he  took  good  care  that  she 
should  not  be  without  healthy  childish  read 
ing.  We  have  an  amusing  picture  of  her  con 
soling  herself  with  fairy  tales,  when  exiled, 
for  her  restlessness,  to  the  foot  of  her  sister's 
bed  ;  and  one  of  the  first  copies  of  Rosamond, 
and  Harry  and  Lucy  found  its  way  to  Mar- 
jorie  Fleming,  with  Sir  Walter  Scott's  name 
written  on  the  fly-leaf. 

Fairy  tales,  and  Harry  and  Lucy !  But  the 
real,  old-fashioned,  earnest,  half-sombre  fairy 
tales  of  our  youth  have  slipped  from  the  hands 
of  children  into  those  of  folk-lore  students, 
who  are  busy  explaining  all  their  flavor  out  of 
them  ;  while  as  for  Miss  Edgeworth,  the  little 
people  of  to-day  cannot  be  persuaded  that  she 
is  not  dull  and  prosy.  Yet  what  keen  plea 
sure  have  her  stories  given  to  generations  of 
boys  and  girls,  who  in  their  time  have  grown 
to  be  clever  men  and  women!  Hear  what 
Miss  Thackeray,  that  loving  student  of  chil 
dren  and  of  childish  ways,  has  to  record  about 
them.  "  When  I  look  back,"  she  writes, 


WHAT   CHILDREN  READ.  81 

"  upon  nay  own  youth,  I  seem  to  have  lived  in 
company  with  a  delightful  host  of  little  play 
mates,  bright,  busy  children,  whose  cheerful 
presence  remains  more  vividly  in  my  mind 
than  that  of  many  of  the  real  little  boys  and 
girls  who  used  to  appear  and  disappear  discon 
nectedly,  as  children  do  in  childhood,  when 
friendship  and  companionship  depend  almost 
entirely  upon  the  convenience  of  grown-up 
people.  Now  and  again  came  little  cousins  or 
friends  to  share  our  games,  but  day  by  day, 
constant  and  unchanging,  ever  to  be  relied 
upon,  smiled  our  most  lovable  and  friendly 
companions :  simple  Susan,  lame  Jervas,  the 
dear  little  merchants,  Jem,  the  widow's  son, 
with  his  arms  around  old  Lightfoot's  neck, 
the  generous  Ben,  with  his  whip-cord  and  his 
useful  proverb  of  '  Waste  not,  want  not,'  — 
all  of  these  were  there  in  the  window  corner 
waiting  our  pleasure.  After  Parents'  Assist 
ant,  to  which  familiar  words  we  attached  no 
meaning  whatever,  came  Popular  Tales  in  big 
brown  volumes  off  a  shelf  in  the  lumber-rooin 
of  an  apartment  in  an  old  house  in  Paris  ;  and 
as  we  opened  the  books,  lo !  creation  widened 
to  our  view.  England,  Ireland,  America, 


82  BOOKS  AND   MEN. 

Turkey,  the  mines  of  Golconda,  the  streets  of 
Bagdad,  thieves,  travelers,  governesses,  natural 
philosophy,  and  fashionable  life  were  all  laid 
under  contribution,  and  brought  interest  and 
adventure  to  our  humdrum  nursery  corner."  1 

And  have  these  bright  and  varied  pictures, 
"  these  immortal  tales,"  as  Mr.  Matthew  Ar 
nold  termed  them,  lost  their  power  to  charm, 
that  they  are  banished  from  our  modern 
nursery  corners ;  or  is  it  because  their  didactic 
purpose  is  too  thinly  veiled,  or  —  as  I  have 
sometimes  fancied  —  because  their  authoress 
took  so  moderate  a  view  of  children's  func 
tions  and  importance  ?  If  we  place  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  and  Miss  Alcott's  stories  side  by  side, 
we  shall  see  that  the  contrast  between  them 
lies  not  so  much  in  the  expected  dissimilarity 
of  style  and  incident  as  in  the  utterly  different 
Standpoint  from  which  their  writers  regard  the 
aspirations  and  responsibilities  of  childhood. 
Take,  for  instance,  Miss  Edge  worth's  Rosa 
mond  and  Miss  Alcott's  Eight  Cousins,  both 
of  them  books  purporting  to  show  the  gradual 
development  of  a  little  girl's  character  under 
kindly  and  stimulating  influences.  Rosamond, 
i  A  Book  of  Sibyls. 


WHAT  CHILDREN  READ.  83 

who  is  said  to  be  a  portrait  of  Maria  Edge- 
worth  herself,  is  from  first  to  last  the  undis 
puted  heroine  of  the  volume  which  bears  her 
name.  Laura  may  be  much  wiser,  Godfrey 
far  more  clever ;  but  neither  of  them  usurps 
for  a  moment  their  sister's  place  as  the  cen 
tral  figure  of  the  narrative,  round  whom  our 
interest  clings.  But  when  we  come  to  con 
sider  her  position  in  her  own  family,  we  find 
it  strangely  insignificant.  The  foolish,  warm 
hearted,  impetuous  little  girl  is  of  importance 
to  the  household  only  through  the  love  they 
bear  her.  It  is  plain  her  opinions  do  not 
carry  much  weight,  and  she  is  never  called  on 
to  act  as  an  especial  providence  to  any  one. 
We  do  not  behold  her  winning  Godfrey  away 
from  his  cigar,  or  Orlando  from  fast  compan 
ions,  or  correcting  anybody's  faults,  tn  fact, 
except  her  own,  which  are  numerous  enough, 
and  give  her  plenty  of  concern. 

Now  with  Rose,  the  bright  little  heroine  of 
Eight  Cousins,  and  of  its  sequel  A  Rose  in 
Bloom,  everything  is  vastly  different.  She  is 
of  the  utmost  importance  to  all  the  grown-up 
people  in  the  book,  most  of  whom,  it  must  be 
acknowledged,  are  extremely  silly  and  inca* 


84  BOOKS   AND   MEN. 

pable.  Her  aunts  set  the  very  highest  value 
upon  her  society,  and  receive  it  with  gratified 
rapture ;  while  among  her  male  cousins  she  is 
from  the  first  like  a  missionary  in  the  Feejees. 
It  is  she  who  cures  them  of  their  boyish  vices, 
obtaining  in  return  from  their  supine  mothers 
"  a  vote  of  thanks,  which  made  her  feel  as  if 
she  had  done  a  service  to  her  country."  At 
thirteen  she  discovers  that  "  girls  are  made  to 
take  care  of  boys,"  and  with  dauntless  assur 
ance  sets  about  her  self-appointed  task.  "  You 
boys  need  somebody  to  look  after  you,"  she 
modestly  announces,  —  most  of  them  are  her 
seniors,  by  the  way,  and  all  have  parents,  — 
"  so  I  'm  going  to  do  it ;  for  girls  are  nice 
peacemakers,  and  know  how  to  manage  peo 
ple."  Naturally,  to  a  young  person  holding 
these  advanced  views  of  life,  Miss  Edge  worth's 
limited  field  of  action  seems  a  very  spiritless 
affair,  and  we  find  Rose  expressing  herself  with 
characteristic  energy  on  the  subject  of  the 
purple  jar,  declaring  that  Rosamond's  mother 
was  "  regularly  mean,"  and  that  she  "  always 
wanted  to  shake  that  woman,  though  she  was 
a  model  mamma  "  !  As  we  read  the  audacious 
words,  we  half  expect  to  see,  rising  from  the 


WHAT  CHILDREN  READ.  85 

mists  of  story-book  land,  the  indignant  ghost 
of  little  English  Rosamond,  burning  to  defend, 
with  all  her  old  impetuosity,  the  mother  whom 
she  so  dearly  loved.  It  is  true,  she  had  no 
sense  of  a  "mission,"  this  commonplace  but 
very  amusing  little  girl.  She  never,  like  Rose, 
adopted  a  pauper  infant,  or  made  friends  with 
a  workhouse  orphan  ;  she  never  vetoed  pretty 
frocks  in  favor  of  philanthropy,  or  announced 
that  she  would  "  have  nothing  to  do  with  love 
until  she  could  prove  that  she  was  something 
beside  a  housekeeper  and  a  baby-tender."  In 
fact,  she  was  probably  taught  that  love  and 
matrimony  and  babies  were  not  proper  sub 
jects  for  discussion  in  the  polite  society  for 
which  she  was  so  carefully  reared.  The  hints 
that  are  given  her  now  and  then  on  such  mat 
ters  by  no  means  encourage  a  free  expression 
of  any  unconventional  views.  "  It  is  particu 
larly  amiable  in  a  woman  to  be  ready  to  yield, 
and  avoid  disputing  about  trifles,"  says  Rosa 
mond's  father,  who  plainly  does  not  consider 
his  child  in  the  light  of  a  beneficent  genius  ; 
while,  when  she  reaches  her  teens,  she  is  de 
scribed  as  being  "just  at  that  age  when  girls 
do  not  join  in  conversation,  but  when  they  sit 


86  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

modestly  silent,  and  have  leisure,  if  they  have 
sense,  to  judge  of  what  others  say,  and  to 
form  by  choice,  and  not  by  chance,  their  opin 
ions  of  what  goes  on  in  that  great  world  into 
which  they  have  not  yet  entered." 

And  is  it  really  only  ninety  years  since  this 
delicious  sentence  was  penned  in  sober  earnest, 
as  representing  an  existing  state  of  things  ! 
There  is  an  antique,  musty,  long  -  secluded 
flavor  about  it,  that  would  suggest  a  mono 
graph  copied  from  an  Egyptian  tomb  with 
thirty  centuries  of  dust  upon  its  hoary  head. 
Yet  Rosamond,  sitting  "  modestly  silent "  un 
der  the  delusion  that  grown-up  people  are 
worth  listening  to,  can  talk  fluently  enough 
when  occasion  demands  it,  though  at  all  times 
her  strength  lies  rather  in  her  heart  than  in 
her  head.  She  represents  that  tranquil,  un 
questioning,  unselfish  family  love,  which  Miss 
Edgeworth  could  describe  so  well  because  she 
felt  it  so  sincerely.  The  girl  who  had  three 
stepmothers  and  nineteen  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  managed  to  be  fond  of  them  all,  should 
be  good  authority  on  the  subject  of  domestic 
affections ;  and  that  warm,  happy,  loving  at 
mosphere  which  charms  us  in  her  stories,  and 


WHAT   CHILDREN  READ.  87 

which  brought  tears  to  Sir  Walter  Scott's  eyes 
when  he  laid  down  Simple  Susan,  is  only  the 
reflection  of  the  cheerful  home  life  she  stead 
fastly  helped  to  brighten. 

Her  restrictions  as  a  writer  are  perhaps 
most  felt  by  those  who  admire  her  most.  Her 
pet  virtue  —  after  prudence  —  is  honesty  ;  and 
yet  how  poor  a  sentiment  it  becomes  under  her 
treatment !  —  no  virtue  at  all,  in  fact,  but 
merely  a  policy  working  for  its  own  gain. 
Take  the  long  conversation  between  the  little 
Italian  merchants  on  the  respective  merits  of 
integrity  and  sharpness  in  their  childish  traffic. 
Each  disputant  exhausts  his  wits  in  trying  to 
prove  the  superior  wisdom  of  his  own  course, 
but  not  once  does  the  virtuous  Francisco  make 
use  of  the  only  argument  which  is  of  any  real 
value,  —  I  do  not  cheat  because  it  is  not  right. 
There  is  more  to  be  learned  about  honesty, 
real  unselfish,  unrequited  honesty,  in  Charles 

Lamb's  little  sketch  of  Barbara  S than  in 

all  Miss  Edgeworth  has  written  on  the  subject 
in  a  dozen  different  tales. 

"  Taking  up  one's  cross  does  not  at  all  mean 
having  ovations  at  dinner  parties,  and  being 
put  over  everybody  else's  head,"  says  Ruskin, 


88  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

with  visible  impatience  at  the  smooth  and  easy 
manner  in  whicli  Miss  Edgeworth  persists  in 
grinding  the  mills  of  the  gods,  and  distribu 
ting  poetical  justice  to  each  and  every  comer. 
It  may  be  very  nice  to  see  the  generous  Laura, 
who  gave  away  her  half  sovereign,  extolled  to 
the  skies  by  a  whole  room  full  of  company, 
"  disturbed  for  the  purpose,"  while  "  poor  dear 
little  Rosamond  "  —  he  too  has  a  weakness 
for  this  small  blunderer  —  is  left  in  the  lurch, 
without  either  shoes  or  jar  ;  but  it  is  not  real 
generosity  that  needs  so  much  commendation, 
and  it  is  not  real  life  that  can  be  depended  on 
for  giving  it.  Yet  Ruskin  admits  that  Harry 
and  Lucy  were  his  earliest  friends,  to  the  ex 
tent  even  of  inspiring  him  with  an  ambitious 
desire  to  continue  their  history  ;  and  he  cannot 
say  too  much  in  praise  of  an  authoress  "  whose 
every  page  is  so  full  and  so  delightful.  I  can 
read  her  over  and  over  again,  without  ever 
tiring.  No  one  brings  you  into  the  company 
of  pleasanter  or  wiser  people  ;  no  one  tells 
you  more  truly  how  to  do  right."  1 

He  might  have  added  that  no  one  ever  was 
more  moderate  in  her  exactions.     The  little 

1  Ethics  of  the  Dust. 


WHAT  CHILDREN  READ.  89 

people  who  brighten  Miss  Edgeworth's  pages 
are  not  expected,  like  the  children  in  more  re 
cent  books,  to  take  upon  their  shoulders  a  load 
of  grown-up  duties  and  responsibilities.  Life 
is  simplified  for  them  by  an  old-fashioned  habit 
of  trusting  in  the  wisdom  of  their  parents  ; 
and  these  parents,  instead  of  being  foolish  and 
wrong-headed,  so  as  to  set  off  more  strikingly 
the  child's  sagacious  energy,  are  apt  to  be  very 
sensible  and  kind,  and  remarkably  well  able 
to  take  care  of  themselves  and  their  families. 
This  is  the  more  refreshing  because,  after  read 
ing  a  few  modern  stories,  either  English  or 
American,  one  is  troubled  with  serious  doubts 
as  to  the  moral  usefulness  of  adults ;  and  we 
begin  to  feel  that  as  we  approach  the  age  of 
Mentor  it  behooves  us  to  find  some  wise  young 
Telemachus  who  will  consent  to  be  our  pro 
tector  and  our  guide.  There  is  no  more  charm 
ing  writer  for  the  young  than  Flora  Shaw; 
yet  Hector  and  Phyllis  Browne,  and  even  that 
group  of  merry  Irish  children  in  Castle  Blair, 
are  all  convinced  it  is  their  duty  to  do  some 
difficult  or  dangerous  work  in  the  interests  of 
humanity,  and  all  are  afflicted  with  a  prema- 
ture  consciousness  of  social  evils. 


90  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

"  The  time  is  out  of  joint ;  oh,  cursed  spite! 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right !  ' ' 

cries  Hamlet  wearily ;  but  it  is  at  thirty,  and 
not  at  thirteen,  that  he  makes  this  unpleasant 
discovery. 

In  religious  stories,  of  which  there  are  many 
hundreds  published  every  year,  these  peculiar 
views  are  even  more  defined,  presenting  them 
selves  often  in  the  form  of  a  spiritual  contest 
between  highly  endowed,  sensitive  children 
and  their  narrow-minded  parents  and  guar 
dians,  who,  of  course,  are  always  in  the  wrong. 
The  clever  authoress  of  Thrown  Together  is 
by  no  means  innocent  of  this  unwholesome 
tone  ;  but  the  chief  offender,  and  one  who  has 
had  a  host  of  dismal  imitators,  is  Susan  War 
ner,  —  Miss  Wetherell,  —  who  plainly  consid 
ered  that  virtue,  especially  in  the  young,  was 
of  no  avail  unless  constantly  undergoing  per 
secution.  Her  supernaturally  righteous  little 
girls,  who  pin  notes  on  their  fathers'  dressing- 
tables,  requesting  them  to  become  Christians, 
and  who  endure  the  most  brutal  treatment  — 
at  their  parents'  hands  —  rather  than  sing 
songs  on  Sunday  evening,  are  equaled  only  by 
her  older  heroines,  who  divide  their  time  im- 


WHAT  CHILDREN  READ.  91 

partially  between  flirting  and  praying,  between 
indiscriminate  kisses  and  passionate  searching 
for  light.  A  Blackwood  critic  declares  that 
there  is  more  kissing  done  in  The  Old  Hel 
met  than  in  all  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novels 
put  together,  and  utters  an  energetic  protest 
against  the  penetrating  glances,  and  earnest 
pressing  of  hands,  and  brotherly  embraces, 
and  the  whole  vulgar  paraphernalia  of  pious 
flirtation,  so  immeasurably  hurtful  to  the  un 
disciplined  fancy  of  the  young.  "  They  have 
good  reason  to  expect,"  he  growls,  "  from  these 
pictures  of  life,  that  if  they  are  very  good,  and 
very  pious,  and  very  busy  in  doing  grown-up 
work,  when  they  reach  the  mature  age  of  six 
teen  or  so,  some  young  gentleman  who  has 
been  in  love  with  them  all  along  will  declare 
himself  at  the  very  nick  of  time  ;  and  they 
may  then  look  to  find  themselves,  all  the  strug 
gles  of  life  over,  reposing  a  weary  head  on  his 
stalwart  shoulder.  .  .  .  Mothers,  never  in  great 
favor  with  novelists,  are  sinking  deeper  and 
deeper  in  their  black  books,  —  there  is  a  posi 
tive  jealousy  of  their  influence ;  while  the 
father  in  the  religious  tale,  as  opposed  to  the 
moral  or  sentimental,  is  commonly  either  a 


92  BOOKS  AND  MEN 

scamp  or  nowhere.      The  heroine  has,   so  to 
say,  to  do  her  work  single-handed." 

In  some  of  these  stories,  moreover,  the  end 
justifies  the  means  to  an  alarming  extent. 
Girls  who  steal  money  from  their  relatives  in 
order  to  go  as  missionaries  among  the  Indians, 
and  young  women  who  pretend  to  sit  up  with 
the  sick  that  they  may  slip  off  unattended  to 
hear  some  inspired  preacher  in  a  barn,  are  not 
safe  companions  even  in  books;  while,  if  no 
grave  indiscretion  be  committed,  the  lesson  of 
self-righteousness  is  taught  on  every  page. 
Not  very  long  ago  I  had  the  pleasure  of  read 
ing  a  tale  in  which  the  youthful  heroine  con 
siders  it  her  mission  in  life  to  convert  her 
grandparents  ;  and  while  there  is  nothing  to 
prevent  an  honest  girl  from  desiring  such  a 
thing,  the  idea  is  not  a  happy  one  for  a  narra 
tive,  in  view  of  certain  homely  old  adages  irre 
sistibly  associated  with  the  notion.  "  Girls," 
wrote  Hannah  More,  "  should  be  led  to  dis 
trust  their  own  judgment ;  "  but  if  they  have 
the  conversion  of  their  grandparents  on  their 
hands,  how  can  they  afford  to  be  distrustful  ? 
Hannah  More  is  unquestionably  out  of  date, 
and  so,  we  fear,  is  that  English  humorist  who 


WHAT  CHILDREN  READ.  93 

said,  "  If  all  the  grown-up  people  in  the  world 
should  suddenly  fail,  what  a  frightful  thing 
would  society  become,  reconstructed  by  boys !  " 
Evidently  he  had  in  mind  a  land  given  over  to 
toffy  and  foot-ball,  but  he  was  strangely  mis 
taken  in  his  notions.  Perhaps  the  carnal  lit 
tle  hero  of  Vice  Versa  might  have  managed 
matters  in  this  disgraceful  fashion  ;  but  with 
Flora  Shaw's  earnest  children  at  the  helm,  so 
ciety  would  be  reconstructed  on  a  more  serious 
basis  than  it  is  already,  and  Heaven  knows 
this  is  not  a  change  of  which  we  stand  in  need. 
In  fact,  if  the  young  people  who  live  and 
breathe  around  us  are  one  third  as  capable,  as 
strenuous,  as  clear-sighted,  as  independent,  as 
patronizing,  and  as  undeniably  our  superiors  as 
their  modern  counterparts  in  literature,  who 
can  doubt  that  the  eternal  cause  of  progress 
would  be  furthered  by  the  change?  And  is 
it,  after  all,  mere  pique  which  inclines  us  to 
Miss  Edgeworth's  ordinary  little  boys  and 
girls,  who,  standing  half  dazed  on  the  thresh 
old  of  life,  stretch  out  their  hands  with  child 
ish  confidence  for  help  ? 


THE  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT. 

THAT  useful  little  phrase,  "  the  complexity 
of  modern  thought,"  has  been  so  hard  worked 
of  late  years  that  it  seems  like  a  refinement  of 
cruelty  to  add  to  its  obligations.  Begotten  by 
the  philosophers,  born  of  the  essayists,  and 
put  out  to  nurse  among  the  novel-writers,  it 
has  since  been  apprenticed  to  the  whole  body 
of  scribblers,  and  drudges  away  at  every  trade 
in  literature.  How,  asks  Vernon  Lee,  can  we 
expect  our  fiction  to  be  amusing,  when  a  psy 
chological  and  sympathetic  interest  has  driven 
away  the  old  hard-hearted  spirit  of  comedy  ? 
How,  asks  Mr.  Pater,  can  Sebastian  Van  Stork 
make  up  his  mind  to  love  and  marry  and  work 
like  ordinary  mortals,  when  the  many-sided 
ness  of  life  has  wrought  in  him  a  perplexed 
envy  of  those  quiet  occupants  of  the  church 
yard,  "  whose  deceasing  was  so  long  since 
over"?  How,  asks  George  Eliot,  can  Mrs. 
Pullet  weep  with  uncontrolled  emotion  over 
Mrs.  Button's  dropsy,  when  it  behooves  her 


THE  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT.  95 

not  to  crush  her  sleeves  or  stain  her  bonnet- 
strings  ?  The  problem  is  repeated  everywhere, 
either  in  mockery  or  deadly  earnestness,  ac 
cording  to  the  questioner's  disposition,  and  the 
old  springs  of  simple  sentiment  are  drying 
fast  within  us.  It  is  heartless  to  laugh,  it  is 
foolish  to  cry,  it  is  indiscreet  to  love,  it  is  mor 
bid  to  hate,  and  it  is  intolerant  to  espouse  any 
caiise  with  enthusiasm. 

There  was  a  time,  and  not  so  many  years 
ago,  when  men  and  women  found  no  great 
difficulty  in  making  up  their  minds  on  ordinary 
matters,  and  their  opinions,  if  erroneous,  were 
at  least  succinct  and  definite.  Nero  was  then 
a  cruel  tyrant,  the  Duke  of  Wellington  a 
great  soldier,  Sir  Walter  Scott  the  first  of 
novelists,  and  the  French  Revolution  a  villain 
ous  piece  of  business.  Now  we  are  equally 
enlightened  and  confused  by  'the  keen  re 
searches  and  shifting  verdicts  with  which  his 
torians  and  critics  seek  to  dispel  this  comfort 
able  frame  of  darkness.  Nero,  perhaps,  had 
the  good  of  his  subjects  secretly  at  heart  when 
he  expressed  that  benevolent  desire  to  dispatch 
them  all  at  a  blow,  and  Robespierre  was  but  a 
practical  philanthropist,  carried,  it  may  be,  a 


96  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

little  too  far  by  the  stimulating  influences  of 
the  hour.  "  We  have  palliations  of  Tiberius, 
eulogies  of  Henry  VIII.,  and  devotional  exer 
cises  to  Cromwell,"  observes  Mr.  Bagehot,  in 
some  perplexity  as  to  where  this  state  of 
things  may  find  an  ending ;  and  he  confesses 
that  in  the  mean  time  his  own  original  notions 
of  right  and  wrong  are  growing  sadly  hazy 
and  uncertain.  Moreover,  in  proportion  as 
the  heavy  villains  of  history  assume  a  chas 
tened  and  ascetic  appearance,  its  heroes  dwin 
dle  perceptibly  into  the  commonplace,  and  its 
heroines  are  stripped  of  every  alluring  grace ; 
while  as  for  the  living  men  who  are  controlling 
the  destinies  of  nations,  not  even  Macaulay's 
ever  useful  schoolboy  is  too  small  and  ignorant 
to  refuse  them  homage.  Yet  we  read  of  Scott, 
in  the  zenith  of  his  fame,  standing  silent  and 
abashed  before  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  un 
able,  and  perhaps  unwilling,  to  shake  off  the 
awe  that  paralyzed  his  tongue.  "  The  Duke 
possesses  every  one  mighty  quality  of  the 
mind  in  a  higher  degree  than  any  other  man 
either  does  or  has  ever  done  !  "  exclaimed  Sir 
Walter  to  John  Ballantyne,  who,  not  being 
framed  for  hero-worship,  failed  to  appreciate 


THE  DECAY   OF  SENTIMENT.  97 

his  friend's  extraordinary  enthusiasm.  While 
we  smile  at  the  sentiment,  —  knowing,  of 
course,  so  much  better  ourselves,  —  we  feel 
an  envious  admiration  of  the  happy  man  who 
uttered  it. 

There  is  a  curious  little  incident  which  Mrs. 
Lockhart  used  to  relate,  in  after  years,  as  a 
proof  of  her  father's  emotional  temperament, 
and  of  the  reverence  with  which  he  regarded 
all  that  savored  of  past  or  present  greatness. 
When  the  long-concealed  Scottish  regalia  were 
finally  brought  to  light,  and  exhibited  to  the 
public  of  Edinburgh,  Scott,  who  had  previously 
been  one  of  the  committee  chosen  to  unlock 
the  chest,  took  his  daughter  to  see  the  .royal 
jewels.  She  was  then  a  girl  of  fifteen,  and 
her  nerves  had  been  so  wrought  upon  by  all 
that  she  had  heard  on  the  subject  that,  when 
the  lid  was  opened,  she  felt  herself  growing 
faint,  and  withdrew  a  little  from  the  crowd. 
A  light-minded  young  commissioner,  to  whom 
the  occasion  suggested  no  solemnity,  took  up 
the  crown,  and  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  place  it 
on  the  head  of  a  lady  standing  near,  when 
Sophia  Scott  heard  her  father  exclaim  passion 
ately,  in  a  voice  "  something  between  anger 


98  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

and  despair,"  "  By  G— ,  no  !  "  The  gentle 
man,  much  embarrassed,  immediately  replaced 
the  diadem,  and  Sir  Walter,  turning  aside, 
saw  his  daughter,  deadly  pale,  leaning  against 
the  door,  and  led  her  at  once  into  the  open 
air.  "  He  never  spoke  all  the  way  home," 
she  added,  "  but  every  now  and  then  I  felt  his 
arm  tremble  ;  and  from  that  time  I  fancied  he 
began  to  treat  me  more  like  a  woman  than  a 
child.  I  thought  he  liked  me  better,  too,  than 
he  had  ever  done  before." 

The  whole  scene,  as  we  look  back  upon  it 
now,  is  a  quaint  illustration  of  how  far  a 
man's  emotions  could  carry  him,  when  they 
were  nourished  alike  by  the  peculiarities  of 
his  genius  and  of  his  education.  The  feeling 
was  doubtless  an  exaggerated  one,  but  it  was 
at  least  nobler  than  the  speculative  humor 
with  which  a  careless  crowd  now  calculates 
the  market  value  of  the  crown  jewels  in  the 
Tower  of  London.  "  What  they  would  bring  " 
was  a  thought  which  we  may  be  sure  never 
entered  Sir  Walter's  head,  as  he  gazed  with 
sparkling  eyes  on  the  modest  regalia  of  Scot 
land,  and  conjured  up  every  stirring  drama  in 
which  they  had  played  their  part.  For  him 


THE  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT.  99 

each  page  of  his  country's  history  was  the  sub 
ject  of  close  and  loving  scrutiny.  All  those 
Davids,  and  Williams,  and  Malcolms,  about 
whom  we  have  an  indistinct  notion  that  they 
spent  their  lives  in  being  bullied  by  their 
neighbors  and  badgered  by  their  subjects, 
were  to  his  mind  as  kingly  as  Charlemagne 
on  his  Throne  of  the  West ;  and  their  crimes 
and  struggles  and  brief  glorious  victories  were 
part  of  the  ineffaceable  knowledge  of  his  boy 
hood.  To  feel  history  in  this  way,  to  come 
so  close  to  the  world's  actors  that  our  pulses 
rise  and  fall  with  their  vicissitudes,  is  a  better 
thing,  after  all,  than  the  most  accurate  and 
reasonable  of  doubts.  I  knew  two  little 
English  girls  who  always  wore  black  frocks  on 
the  30th  of  January,  in  honor  of  the  "  Royal 
Martyr,"  and  tied  up  their  hair  with  black  rib 
bons,  and  tried  hard  to  preserve  the  decent 
gravity  of  demeanor  befitting  such  a  doleful 
anniversary.  The  same  little  girls,  it  must 
be  confessed,  carried  Holmby  House  to  bed 
with  them,  and  bedewed  their  pillows  with 
many  tears  over  the  heart-rending  descrip 
tions  thereof.  What  to  them  were  the  "  out 
raged  liberties  of  England,"  which  Mr.  Gosse 


100  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

rather  vaguely  tells  us  tore  King  Charles  to 
pieces  ?  They  saw  him  standing  on  the  scaf 
fold,  a  sad  and  princely  figure,  and  they  heard 
the  frightened  sobs  that  rent  the  air  when  the 
cruel  deed  was  done.  It  is  not  possible  for 
us  now  to  take  this  picturesque  and  exclusive 
view  of  one  whose  shortcomings  have  been  so 
vigorously  raked  to  light  by  indignant  disci 
ples  of  Carlyle  ;  but  the  child  who  has  ever 
cried  over  any  great  historic  tragedy  is  richer 
for  the  experience,  and  stands  on  higher 
ground  than  one  whose  life  is  bounded  by  the 
schoolroom  walls,  or  who  finds  her  needful 
stimulant  in  the  follies  of  a  precocious  flirta 
tion.  What  a  charming  picture  we  have  of 
Eugenie  de  Guerin  feeding  her  passionate  lit 
tle  soul  with  vain  regrets  for  the  unfortunate 
family  of  Louis  XVI.  and  with  sweet  infan 
tile  plans  for  their  rescue.  "  Even  as  a 
child,"  she  writes  in  her  journal,  "  I  venerated 
this  martyr,  I  loved  this  victim  whom  I  heard 
so  much  talked  of  in  my  family  as  the  21st 
of  January  drew  near.  We  used  to  be  taken 
to  the  funeral  service  in  the  church,  and  I 
gazed  at  the  high  catafalque,  the  melancholy 
throne  of  the  good  king.  My  astonishment 


THE  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT.  101 

impressed  me  with  sorrow  and  indignation.  I 
came  away  weeping  over  this  death,  and  hat 
ing  the  wicked  men  who  had  brought  it  about. 
How  many  hours  have  I  spent  devising  means 
for  saving  Louis,  the  queen,  and  the  whole 
hapless  family,  —  if  I  only  had  lived  in  their 
day.  But  after  much  calculating  and  con 
triving,  no  promising  measure  presented  itself, 
and  I  was  forced,  very  reluctantly,  to  leave 
the  prisoners  where  they  were.  My  compas 
sion  was  more  especially  excited  for  the  beau 
tiful  little  Dauphin,  the  poor  child  pent  up 
between  walls,  and  unable  to  play  in  freedom. 
I  used  to  carry  him  off  in  fancy,  and  keep 
him  safely  hidden  at  Cayla,  and  Heaven 
only  knows  the  delight  of  running  about  our 
fields  with  a  prince." 

Here  at  least  we  see  the  imaginative  faculty 
playing  a  vigorous  and  wholesome  part  in  a 
child's  mental  training.  The  little  solitary 
French  girl  who  filled  up  her  lonely  hours 
with  such  pretty  musings  as  these,  could 
scarcely  fail  to  attain  that  rare  distinction  of 
mind  which  all  true  critics  have  been  so 
prompt  to  recognize  and  love.  It  was  with 
her  the  natural  outgrowth  of  an  intelligence, 


102  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

quickened  by  sympathy  and  fed  with  delicate 
emotions.  The  Dauphin  in  the  Temple,  the 
Princes  in  the  Tower,  Marie  Antoinette  on  the 
guillotine,  and  Jeanne  d'Arc  at  the  stake, 
these  are  the  scenes  which  have  burned  their 
way  into  many  a  youthful  heart,  and  the  force 
of  such  early  impressions  can  never  be  utterly 
destroyed.  A  recent  essayist,  deeply  imbued 
with  this  good  principle,  has  assured  us  that 
the  little  maiden  who,  ninety  years  ago,  sur 
prised  her  mother  in  tears,  "  because  the 
wicked  people  had  cut  off  the  French  queen's 
head,"  received  from  that  impression  the  very 
highest  kind  of  education.  But  this  is  ob 
ject-teaching  carried  to  its  extremest  limit, 
and  even  in  these  days,  when  training  is  rec 
ognized  to  be  of  such  vital  importance,  one 
feels  that  the  death  of  a  queen  is  a  high  price 
to  pay  for  a  little  girl's  instruction.  It  might 
perhaps  suffice  to  let  her  live  more  freely  in 
the  past,  and  cultivate  her  emotions  after  a 
less  costly  and  realistic  fashion. 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Edgar  Saltus,  who 
is  nothing  if  not  melancholy,  would  fain  per 
suade  us  that  the  "  gift  of  tears,"  which  Swin 
burne  prized  so  highly  and  Mrs.  Browning 


THE  DECAY   OF  SENTIMENT.  103 

cultivated  with  such  transparent  care,  finds 
its  supreme  expression  in  man,  only  because  of 
man's  greater  capacity  for  suffering.  Yet  if 
it  be  true  that  the  burden  of  life  grows  heav 
ier  for  each  succeeding  generation,  it  is  no  less 
apparent  that  we  have  taught  ourselves  to 
stare  dry-eyed  at  its  blankness.  An  old  rab 
binical  legend  says  that  in  Paradise  God  gave 
the  earth  to  Adam  and  tears  to  Eve,  and  it  is 
a  cheerless  doctrine  which  tells  us  now  that 
both  gifts  are  equal  because  both  are  value 
less,  that  the  world  will  never  be  any  merrier, 
and  that  we  are  all  tired  of  waxing  sentimen 
tal  over  its  lights  and  shadows.  But  our 
great-grandfathers,  who  were  assuredly  not  a 
tender-hearted  race,  and  who  never  troubled 
their  heads  about  those  modern  institutions, 
wickedly  styled  by  Mr.  Lang  "  Societies  for 
Badgering  the  Poor,"  cried  right  heartily 
over  poems,  and  novels,  and  pictures,  and 
plays,  and  scenery,  and  "everything,  in  short, 
that  their  great-grandsons  would  not  now  con 
sider  as  worthy  of  emotion.  Jeffrey  the  ter 
rible  shed  tears  over  the  long-drawn  pathos 
of  little  Nell,  and  has  been  roundly  abused 
by  critics  ever  since  for  the  extremely  bad 


104  BOOKS  AXD  MEN. 

taste  he  exhibited.  Macaulay,  who  was  sel 
dom  disposed  to  be  sentimental,  confesses 
that  he  wept  over  Florence  Dombey.  Lord 
Byron  was  strongly  moved  when  Scott  recited 
to  him  his  favorite  ballad  of  Hardyknute; 
and  Sir  Walter  himself  paid  the  tribute  of 
his  tears  to  Mrs.  Opie's  dismal  stories,  and 
Southey's  no  less  dismal  Pilgrimage  to  Water 
loo.  When  Marmion  was  first  published, 
Joanna  Baillie  undertook  to  read  it  aloud  to  a 
little  circle  of  literary  friends,  and  on  reach 
ing  those  lines  which  have  reference  to  her 
own  poems, 

"When  she  the  bold  enchantress  came, 
With  fearless  hand,  and  heart  in  flame," 

the  "  uncontrollable  emotion  "  of  her  hearers 
forced  the  fair  reader  to  break  down.  In 
a  modern  drawing-room  this  uncontrollable 
emotion  would  probably  find  expression  in 
such  gentle  murmurs  of  congratulation  as 
"  Very  pretty  and  appropriate,  I  am  sure,"  or 
"  How  awfully  nice  in  Sir  Walter  to  have  put 
it  in  that  way !  " 

Turn  where  we  will,  however,  amid  the 
pages  of  the  past,  we  see  this  precious  gift  of 
tears  poured  out  in  what  seems  to  us  now  a 


THE  DEC  A  Y   OF  SENTIMENT.  105 

spirit  of  wanton  profusion.  Sterne,  by  his  own 
showing,  must  have  gone  through  life  like 
the  Walrus,  in  Through  the  Looking  Glass, 

"  Holding  his  pocket  handkerchief 
Before  his  streaming  eyes ;  ' ' 

and  we  can  detect  him  every  now  and  then 
peeping  slyly  out  of  the  folds,  to  see  what  sort 
of  an  impression  he  was  making.  "  I  am  as 
weak  as  a  woman,"  he  sighs,  with  conscious 
satisfaction,  "  and  I  beg  the  world  not  to 
smile,  but  pity  me."  Burns,  who  at  least  never 
cried  for  effect,  was  moved  to  sudden  tears  by 
a  pathetic  print  of  a  dead  soldier,  that  hung 
on  Professor  Fergusson's  wall.  Scott  was  al 
ways  visibly  affected  by  the  wild  northern 
scenery  that  he  loved;  and  Erskine  was  dis 
covered  in  the  Cave  of  Staffa,  "  weeping  like  a 
woman,"  though,  in  truth,  a  gloomy,  danger 
ous,  slippery,  watery  cavern  is  the  last  place 
on  earth  where  a  woman  would  ordinarily  stop 
to  be  emotional.  She  might  perhaps  cry  with 
Sterne  over  a  dead  monk  or  a  dead  donkey, 
—  he  has  an  equal  allowance  of  tears  for 
both,  —  but  once  inside  of  a  cave,  her  real 
desire  is  to  get  out  again  as  quickly  as  possi 
ble,  with  dry  skirts  and  an  unbroken  neck. 


106  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

It  may  be,  however,  that  our  degenerate  mod 
ern  impulses  afford  us  no  safe  clue  to  those 
halcyon  days  when  sentiment  was  paramount 
and  practical  considerations  of  little  weight ; 
when  wet  feet  and  sore  throats  were  not  suf 
fered  to  intrude  their  rueful  warnings  upon 
the  majesty  of  nature ;  when  ladies,  who 
lived  comfortably  and  happily  with  the  hus 
bands  of  their  choice,  poured  forth  impas 
sioned  prayers,  in  the  Annual  Register,  for 
the  boon  of  indifference,  and  poets  like  Cow- 
per  rushed  forward  to  remonstrate  with  them 
for  their  cruelty. 

"  Let  no  low  thought  suggest  the  prayer, 
Oh  !  grant,  kind  Heaven,  to  me, 
Long  as  I  draw  ethereal  air, 
Sweet  sensibility." 

wrote  the  author  of  The  Task,  in  sober  earnest 
ness  and  sincerity. 

"  Then  oh !  ye  Fair,  if  Pity's  ray 
E'er  taught  your  snowy  breasts  to  sigh, 
Shed  o'er  my  contemplative  lay 
The  tears  of  sensibility," 

wrote  Macaulay  as  a  burlesque  on  the  prevail 
ing  spirit  of  bathos,  and  was,  I  think,  un 
reasonably  angry  because  a  number  of  readers, 
his  own  mother  included,  failed  to  see  that  he 


THE  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT.  107 

was  in  fun.  Yet  all  his  life  this  mocking 
critic  cherished  in  his  secret  soul  of  souls  a 
real  affection  for  those  hysterical  old  romances 
which  had  been  the  delight  of  his  boyhood, 
and  which  were  even  then  rapidly  disappear 
ing  before  the  cold  scorn  of  an  enlightened 
world.  Miss  Austen,  in  Sense  and  Sensibility, 
had  impaled  emotionalism  on  the  fine  shafts  of 
her  delicate  satire,  and  Macaulay  was  Miss 
Austen's  sworn  champion  ;  but  nevertheless  he 
contrived  to  read  and  reread  Mrs.  Meek's  and 
Mrs.  Cuthbertson's  marvelous  stories,  until  he 
probably  knew  them  better  than  he  did  Emma 
or  Northanger  Abbey.  When  an  old  edition 
of  Santa  Sebastiano  was  sold  at  auction  in 
India,  he  secured  it  at  a  fabulous  price, —  Miss 
Eden  bidding  vigorously  against  him,  —  and 
he  occupied  his  leisure  moments  in  making  a 
careful  calculation  of  the  number  of  fainting 
fits  that  occur  in  the  course  of  the  five  vol 
umes.  There  are  twenty-seven  in  all,  so  he 
has  recorded,  of  which  the  heroine  alone  comes 
in  for  eleven,  while  seven  others  are  distributed 
among  the  male  characters.  Mr.  Trevelyan 
has  kindly  preserved  for  us  the  description  of 
a  single  catastrophe,  and  we  can  no  longer 


108  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

wonder  at  anybody's  partiality  for  the  tale, 
when  we  learn  that  "  one  of  the  sweetest 
smiles  that  ever  animated  the  face  of  mortal 
man  now  diffused  itself  over  the  countenance 
of  Lord  St.  Orville,  as  he  fell  at  the  feet  of 
Julia  in  a  death-like  swoon."  Mr.  Howells 
would  doubtless  tell  us  that  this  is  not  a 
true  and  accurate  delineation  of  real  life,  and 
that  what  Lord  St.  Orville  should  have  done 
was  to  have  simply  wiped  the  perspiration 
off  his  forehead,  after  the  unvarnished  fash 
ion  of  Mr.  Mavering,  in  April  Hopes.  But 
Macaulay,  who  could  mop  his  own  brow  when 
ever  he  felt  so  disposed,  and  who  recognized 
his  utter  inability  to  faint  with  a  sweet  smile 
at  a  lady's  feet,  naturally  delighted  in  Mrs. 
Cuthbertson's  singularly  accomplished  hero. 
Swooning  is  now,  I  fear,  sadly  out  of  date. 
In  society  we  no  longer  look  upon  it  as  a 
pleasing  evidence  of  feminine  propriety,  and 
in  the  modern  novel  nothing  sufficiently  excit 
ing  to  bring  about  such  a  result  is  ever  per 
mitted  to  happen.  But  in  the  good  old  impos 
sible  stories  of  the  past  it  formed  a  very  im 
portant  element,  and  some  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe's 
heroines  can  easily  achieve  twenty-seven  faint- 


THE  DEC  A  T  OF  SENTIMENT.  109 

ing-fits  by  their  own  unaided  industry.  They 
faint  at  the  most  inopportune  times  and 
under  the  most  exasperating  circumstances: 
when  they  are  running  away  from  banditti,  or 
hiding  from  cruel  relatives,  or  shut  up  by 
themselves  in  gloomy  dungeons,  with  nobody 
to  look  after  and  resuscitate  them.  Their 
trembling  limbs  are  always  refusing  to  support 
them  just  when  a  little  activity  is  really  neces 
sary  for  safety,  and,  though  they  live  in  an 
atmosphere  of  horrors,  the  smallest  shock  is 
more  than  they  can  endure  with  equanimity. 
In  the  Sicilian  Romance,  Julia's  brother,  de 
siring  to  speak  to  her  for  a  minute,  knocks 
gently  at  her  door,  whereupon,  with  the  most 
unexpected  promptness,  "she  shrieked  and 
fainted  ;  "  and  as  the  key  happens  to  be  turned 
on  the  inside,  he  is  obliged  to  wait  in  the  hall 
until  she  slowly  regains  her  consciousness. 

Nothing,  however,  can  mar  the  decorous  sen 
timentality  which  these  young  people  exhibit 
in  all  their  loves  and  sorrows.  Emily  the  for 
lorn  "  touched  the  chords  of  her  lute  in  solemn 
symphony,"  when  the  unenviable  nature  of  her 
surroundings  might  reasonably  have  banished 
all  music  from  her  soul ;  Theodore  paused  to 


HO  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

bathe  Adeline's  hand  with  his  tears,  in  a  mo 
ment  of  painful  uncertainty  ;  and  Hippolitus, 
who  would  have  scorned  to  be  stabbed  like  an 
ordinary  mortal,  "  received  a  sword  through 
his  body,"  —  precisely  as  though  it  were  a 
present,  —  "  and,  uttering  a  deep  sigh,  fell  to 
the  ground,"  on  which,  true  to  her  principles, 
"Julia  shrieked  and  fainted."  We  read  of 
the  Empress  Octavia  swooning  when  Virgil 
recited  to  her  his  description  of  the  death  of 
Marcellus  ;  and  we  know  that  Shelley  fainted 
when  he  heard  Cristabel  read  ;  but  Mrs.  Rad- 
cliffe's  heroines,  though  equally  sensitive,  are 
kept  too  busy  with  their  own  disasters  to  show 
this  sympathetic  interest  in  literature.  Their 
adventures  strike  us  now  as  being,  on  the  whole, 
more  amusing  than  thrilling ;  but  we  should 
remember  that  they  were  no  laughing  matter 
to  the  readers  of  fifty  years  ago.  People  did 
not  then  object  to  the  interminable  length  of 
a  story,  and  they  followed  its  intricate  wind 
ings  and  counter-windings  with  a  trembling 
zest  which  we  can  only  envy.  One  of  the  ear 
liest  recollections  of  my  own  childhood  is  a 
little  book  depicting  the  awful  results  of  Mrs. 
Radcliffe's  terror-inspiring  romances  upon  the 


THE  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT.  Ill 

youthful  mind ;  a  well-intentioned  work,  no 
doubt,  but  which  inevitably  filled  us  with  a 
sincere  desire  to  taste  for  ourselves  of  these 
pernicious  horrors.  If  I  found  them  far  less 
frightful  than  I  had  hoped,  the  loss  was  mine, 
and  the  fault  lay  in  the  matter-of-fact  atmos 
phere  of  the  modern  nursery ;  for  does  not  the 
author  of  the  now  forgotten  Pursuits  of  Lit 
erature  tell  us  that  the  Mysteries  of  Udolpho 
is  the  work  of  an  intellectual  giant? — "a 
mighty  magician,  bred  and  nourished  by  the 
Florentine  muses  in  their  sacred  solitary 
caverns,  amid  the  pale  shrines  of  Gothic  su 
perstition,  and  in  all  the  dreariness  of  enchant 
ment." 

That  was  the  way  that  critics  used  to  write, 
and  nobody  dreamed  of  laughing  at  them. 
When  Letitia  Elizabeth  Landon  poured  forth 
her  soul  in  the  most  melancholy  of  verses,  all 
London  stopped  to  listen  and  to  pity. 

"  There  is  no  truth  in  love,  whate'er  its  seeming, 
And  Heaven  itself  could  scarcely  seem  more  true. 
Sadly  have  I  awakened  from  the  dreaming 
Whose  charmed  slumher,  false  one,  was  of  you," 

wrote  this  healthy  and  heart-whole  young  wo 
man  ;  and  Lord  Lytton  has  left  us  an  amusing 


112  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

account  of  the  sensation  that  such  poems  ex 
cited.  He  and  his  fellow-students  exhausted 
their  ingenuity  in  romantic  speculations  con 
cerning  the  unknown  singer,  and  inscribed 
whole  reams  of  fervid  but  indifferent  stanzas 
to  her  honor.  "  There  was  always,"  he  says, 
"  in  the  reading-room  of  the  Union,  a  rush 
every  Saturday  afternoon  for  the  Literary 
Gazette,  and  an  impatient  anxiety  to  hasten  at 
once  to  that  corner  of  the  sheet  which  con 
tained  the  three  magical  letters  L.  E.  L.  All 
of  us  praised  the  verse,  and  all  of  us  guessed 
the  author.  We  soon  learned  that  it  was  a 
female,  and  our  admiration  was  doubled,  and 
our  conjectures  tripled."  When  Francesca 
Carrara  appeared,  it  was  received  with  an 
enthusiasm  never  manifested  for  Pride  and 
Prejudice,  or  Persuasion,  and  romantic  young 
men  and  women  reveled  in  its  impassioned 
melancholy.  What  a  pattering  of  tear-drops 
on  every  page  !  The  lovely  heroine  —  less 
mindful  of  her  clothes  than  Mrs.  Pullet  — 
looks  down  and  marks  how  the  great  drops 
have  fallen  like  rain  upon  her  bosom.  "  Alas  !  " 
she  sighs,  "  I  have  cause  to  weep.  I  must 
weep  over  my  own  changefulness,  and  over  the 


THE  DECAY   OF  SENTIMENT.  113 

sweetest  illusions  of  my  youth.  I  feel  sud 
denly  grown  old.  Never  more  will  the  flowers 
seem  so  lovely,  or  the  stars  so  bright.  Never 
more  shall  I  dwell  on  Errninia's  deep  and  en 
during  love  for  the  unhappy  Tancred,  and 
think  that  I  too  could  so  have  loved.  Ah  !  in 
what  now  can  I  believe,  when  I  may  not  even 
trust  my  own  heart  ?  "  Here,  at  least,  we  have 
unadulterated  sentiment,  with  no  traces  in  it 
of  that  "  mean  and  jocular  life  "  which  Emer 
son  so  deeply  scorned,  and  for  which  the  light- 
minded  readers  of  to-day  have  ventured  to  ex 
press  their  cheerful  and  shameless  preference. 
Emotional  literature,  reflecting  as  it  does  the 
tastes  and  habits  of  a  dead  past,  should  not 
stand  trial  alone  before  the  cold  eyes  of  the 
mocking  present,  where  there  is  no  sympathy 
for  its  weakness  and  no  clue  to  its  identity. 
A  happy  commonplaceness  is  now  acknowl 
edged  to  be,  next  to  brevity  of  life,  man's  best 
inheritance ;  but  in  the  days  when  all  the  vir 
tues  and  vices  flaunted  in  gala  costume,  people 
were  hardly  prepared  for  that  fine  simplicity 
which  has  grown  to  be  the  crucial  test  of  art. 
Love,  friendship,  honor,  and  courage  were  as 
real  then  as  now,  but  they  asserted  themselves 


114  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

in  fantastic  ways,  and  with  an  ostentation  that 
we  are  apt  to  mistake  for  insincerity.  When 
Mrs.  Katharine  Philips  founded  her  famous 
Society  of  Friendship,  in  the  middle  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  she  was  working  ear 
nestly  enough  for  her  particular  conception  of 
sweetness  and  light.  It  is  hard  not  to  laugh 
at  these  men  and  women  of  the  world  address 
ing  each  other  solemnly  as  the  "  noble  Silvan- 
der  "  and  the  "  dazzling  Polycrete  ;  "  and  it  is 
harder  still  to  believe  that  the  fervent  devo 
tion  of  their  verses  represented  in  any  degree 
the  real  sentiments  of  their  hearts.  But 
Orinda,  whose  indefatigable  exertions  held  the 
society  together,  meant  every  word  she  said, 
and  credited  the  rest  with  similar  veracity. 

' '  Lucasia,  whose  harmonious  state 
The  Spheres  and  Muses  only  imitate," 

is  for  her  but  a  temperate  expression  of  re 
gard  ;  and  we  find  her  writing  to  Mrs.  Annie 
Owens  —  a  most  unresponsive  young  Welsh 
woman  —  in  language  that  would  be  deemed 
extravagant  in  a  lover :  — 

"  I  did  not  live  until  this  time 

Crowned  my  felicity, 
When  I  could  say  without  a  crime, 
I  am  not  thine,  but  thee." 


THE  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT.  115 

One  wonders  what  portion  of  her  heart  the 
amiable  Mr.  Philips  was  content  to  occupy. 

Frenchwomen  of  the  seventeenth  and  eight 
eenth  centuries  found  their  principal  amuse 
ment  in  contracting,  either  with  each  other  or 
with  men,  those  highly  sentimental  friend 
ships  which  were  presumably  free  from  all 
dross  of  earthly  passion,  and  which  rested  on 
a  shadowy  basis  of  pure  intellectual  affinity. 
Mademoiselle  de  Scuddry  delighted  in  por 
traying  this  rarefied  intercourse  between  con 
genial  souls,  and  the  billing  and  cooing  of 
Platonic  turtle-doves  fill  many  pages  of  her 
ponderous  romances.  Sappho  and  Phaon,  in 
the  Grand  Cyrus,  "  told  each  other  every  par 
ticular  of  their  lives,"  which  must  have  been 
a  little  tedious  at  times  and  altogether  unnec 
essary,  inasmuch  as  we  are  assured  that  "  the 
exchange  of  their  thoughts  was  so  sincere  that 
all  those  in  Sappho's  mind  passed  into  Pha- 
on's,  and  all  those  in  Phaon's  came  into  Sap 
pho's."  Conversation  under  these  circum 
stances  would  be  apt  to  lose  its  zest  for  ordi 
nary  mortals,  who  value  the  power  of  speech 
rather  as  a  disguise  than  as  an  interpretation 
of  their  real  convictions  ;  but  it  was  not  so 


116  BOOKS  AND   MEN. 

with  this  guileless  pair.  "  They  understood 
each  other  without  words,  and  saw  their  whole 
hearts  in  each  other's  eyes." 

As  for  the  great  wave  of  emotionalism  that 
followed  in  Rousseau's  train,  it  was  a  pure 
make-believe,  like  every  other  sentiment  that 
bubbled  on  the  seething  surface  of  French  so 
ciety.  Avarice  and  honor  alone  were  real. 
To  live  like  a  profligate  and  to  die  like  a  hero 
were  the  two  accomplishments  common  to 
every  grand  seigneur  in  the  country.  For  the 
rest,  there  was  a  series  of  fads,  —  simplicity, 
benevolence,  philosophy,  passion,  asceticism; 
Voltaire  one  day,  Rousseau  the  next ;  Arca 
dian  virtues  and  court  vices  jumbled  fantas 
tically  together ;  the  cause  of  the  people  on 
every  tongue,  and  the  partridges  hatching  in 
the  peasant's  corn ;  Marie  Antoinette  milking 
a  cow,  and  the  infant  Madame  Royale  with 
eighty  nurses  and  attendants;  great  ladies, 
with  jewels  in  their  hair,  on  their  bosoms,  and 
on  their  silken  slippers,  laboriously  earning  a 
few  francs  by  picking  out  gold  threads  from 
scraps  of  tarnished  bullion ;  everybody  anx 
iously  asking  everybody  else,  "  What  shall  we 
do  to  be  amused?  "  and  the  real  answer  to  all 


THE  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT.  117 

uttered  long  before  by  Louis  XIII.,  "  Venez, 
monsieur,  allons  -  nous  ennuyer  ensemble." 
Day  and  night  are  not  more  different  than 
this  sickly  hothouse  pressure  and  the  pure 
emotion  that  fired  Scott's  northern  blood,  as 
he  looked  on  the  dark  rain-swept  hills  till  his 
eyes  grew  bright  with  tears.  "  We  sometimes 
weep  to  avoid  the  disgrace  of  not  weeping," 
says  Rochefoucauld,  who  valued  at  its  worth 
the  facile  sentimentality  of  his  countrymen. 
Could  he  have  lived  to  witness  M.  de  Latour's 
hysterical  transports  on  rinding  Rousseau's 
signature  and  a  crushed  periwinkle  in  an  old 
copy  of  the  Imitatio,  the  great  moralist  might 
see  that  his  bitter  truths  have  in  them  a  piti 
less  continuity  of  adjustment,  and  fit  them 
selves  afresh  to  every  age.  What  excitation 
of  feeling  accompanied  the  bloody  work  of 
the  French  Revolutionists !  What  purity  of 
purpose !  What  nobility  of  language !  What 
grandeur  of  device  !  What  bottled  moonshine 
everywhere !  The  wicked  old  world  was  to 
be  born  anew,  reason  was  to  triumph  over 
passion ;  and  self-interest,  which  had  ruled 
men  for  six  thousand  years,  was  to  be  sud 
denly  eradicated  from  their  hearts.  When 


BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

the  patriots  had  finished  cutting  off  every 
body  else's  head,  then  the  reign  of  mutual  ten 
derness  would  begin;  the  week —  inestimable 
privilege  !  —  would  hold  ten  days  instead  of 
seven ;  and  Frimaire  and  Floreal  and  Messi- 
dor  would  prove  to  the  listening  earth  that 
the  very  names  of  past  months  had  sunk  into 
merited  oblivion.  Father  Faber  says  that  a 
sense  of  humor  is  a  great  help  in  the  spiritual 
life ;  it  is  an  absolute  necessity  in  the  tempo 
ral.  Had  the  Convention  possessed  even  the 
faintest  perception  of  the  ridiculous,  this 
friendly  instinct  would  have  lowered  their  sub 
lime  heads  from  the  stars,  stung  them  into 
practical  issues,  and  moderated  the  absurd  de 
lusions  of  the  hour. 

At  present,  however,  the  new  disciples  of 
"earnestness"  are  trying  hard  to  persuade  us 
that  we  are  too  humorous,  and  that  it  is  the 
spirit  of  universal  mockery  which  stifles  all 
our  nobler  and  finer  emotions.  We  would 
like  to  believe  them,  but  unhappily  it  is  only 
to  exceedingly  strenuous  souls  that  this  lawless 
fun  seems  to  manifest  itself.  The  rest  of  us, 
searching  cheerfully  enough,  fail  to  discover 
its  traces.  If  we  are  seldom  capable  of  any 


THK  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT.  119 

sustained  enthusiasm,  it  is  rather  because  we 
yawn  than  because  we  laugh.  Unlike  Emer 
son,  we  are  glad  to  be  amused,  only  the  task 
of  amusing  us  grows  harder  day  by  day  ;  and 
Justin  McCarthy's  languid  heroine,  who  de 
clines  to  get  up  in  the  morning  because  she 
has  so  often  been  up  before,  is  but  an  exhaus 
tive  instance  of  the  inconveniences  of  modern 
satiety.  When  we  read  of  the  Oxford  stu 
dents  beleaguering  the  bookshops  in  excited 
crowds  for  the  first  copies  of  Rokeby  and 
Childe  Harold,  fighting  over  the  precious  vol 
umes,  and  betting  recklessly  on  their  rival 
sales,  we  wonder  whether  either  Lord  Tenny 
son's  or  Mr.  Browning's  latest  effusions  cre 
ated  any  such  tumult  among  the  undergradu 
ates  of  to-day,  or  wiled  away  their  money  from 
more  legitimate  subjects  of  speculation.  Lord 
Holland,  when  asked  by  Murray  for  his  opin 
ion  of  Old  Mortality,  answered  indignantly, 
" Opinion!  We  did  not  one  of  us  go  to 
bed  last  night !  Nothing  slept  but  my  gout." 
Yet  Rokeby  and  Childe  Harold  are  both  in 
sad  disgrace  with  modern  critics,  and  Old 
Mortality  stands  gathering  dust  upon  our 
bookshelves.  Mr.  Howells,  who  ought  to 


120  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

know,  tells  us  that  fiction  lias  become  a  finer 
art  in  our  day  than  it  was  in  the  days  of  our 
fathers,  and  that  the  methods  and  interests  we 
have  outgrown  can  never  hope  to  be  revived. 
So  if  the  masterpieces  of  the  present,  the  tri 
umphs  of  learned  verse  and  realistic  prose,  fail 
to  lift  their  readers  out  of  themselves,  like  the 
masterpieces  of  the  past,  the  fault  must  be  our 
own.  We  devote  some  conscientious  hours 
to  Parleyings  with  Certain  People  of  Impor 
tance,  and  we  are  well  pleased,  on  the  whole, 
to  find  ourselves  in  such  good  company ;  but 
it  is  a  pleasure  rich  in  the  temperance  that 
Hamlet  loved,  and  altogether  unlikely  to  ruffle 
our  composure.  We  read  The  Bostonians 
and  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  with  a  due 
appreciation  of  their  minute  perfections ;  but 
we  go  to  bed  quite  cheerfully  at  our  usual 
hour,  and  are  content  to  wait  an  interval  of 
leisure  to  resume  them.  Could  Daisy  Miller 
charrn  a  gouty  leg,  or  Lemuel  Barker  keep  us 
sleepless  until  morning?  When  St.  Pierre 
finished  the  manuscript  of  Paul  and  Virginia, 
he  consented  to  read  it  to  the  painter,  Joseph 
Vernet.  At  first  the  solitary  listener  was 
loud  in  his  approbation,  then  more  subdued, 


THE  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT.  121 

then  silent  altogether.  "  Soon  he  ceased  to 
praise  ;  he  only  wept."  Yet  Paul  and  Vir 
ginia  has  been  pronounced  morbid,  strained, 
unreal,  unworthy  even  of  the  tears  that  child 
hood  drops  upon  its  pages.  But  would  Mr. 
Millais  or  Sir  Frederick  Leighton  sit  weeping 
over  the  delightful  manuscripts  of  Henry 
Shorthouse  or  Mr.  Louis  Stevenson?  Did 
the  last  flicker  of  genuine  emotional  enthusi 
asm  die  out  with  George  Borrow,  who  lived 
at  least  a  century  too  late  for  his  own  con 
venience  ?  When  a  respectable,  gray-haired, 
middle-aged  Englishman  takes  an  innocent 
delight  in  standing  bare-headed  in  the  rain, 
reciting  execrable  Welsh  verses  on  every  spot 
where  a  Welsh  bard  might,  but  probably  does 
not,  lie  buried,  it  is  small  wonder  that  the 
"  coarse-hearted,  sensual,  selfish  Saxon  "  —  we 
quote  the  writer's  own  words  —  should  find 
the  spectacle  more  amusing  than  sublime. 
But  then  what  supreme  satisfaction  Mr.  Bor 
row  derived  from  his  own  rhapsodies,  what 
conscious  superiority  over  the  careless  crowd 
who  found  life  all  too  short  to  study  the  beau 
ties  of  lolo  Goch  or  Gwilym  ab  leuan ! 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  enjoyable  as 


122  BOOKS  AND  MEN, 

a  thorough-going  monomania,  especially  if  it 
be  of  that  peculiar  literary  order  which  insures 
a  broad  field  and  few  competitors.  In  a  pas 
sionate  devotion  to  Welsh  epics  or  to  Proven 
cal  pastorals,  to  Roman  antiquities  or  to 
Gypsy  genealogy,  to  the  most  confused  epochs 
of  Egyptian  history  or  the  most  private  cor 
respondence  of  a  dead  author,  —  in  one  or 
other  of  these  favorite  specialties  our  mod 
ern  students  choose  to  put  forth  their  powers, 
and  display  an  astonishing  industry  and  zeal. 
There  is  a  story  told  of  a  far  too  cultivated 
young  man,  who,  after  professing  a  great  love 
for  music,  was  asked  if  he  enjoyed  the  opera. 
He  did  not.  Oratorios  were  therN  more  to  his 
taste.  He  did  not  care  for  them  at  all.  Bal 
lads  perhaps  pleased  him  by  thei"  simplicity. 
He  took  no  interest  in  them  whatever. 
Church  music  alone  was  left.  He  \ad  no  par 
tiality  for  even  that.  "  What  is  it  you  do 
like  ?  "  asked  his  questioner,  with  despairing 
persistency ;  and  the  answer  was  vouchsafed 
her  in  a  single  syllable,  "  Fugues."  This  ex- 
clusiveness  of  spirit  may  be  detrimental  to 
that  broad  catholicity  on  which  great  mtads 
are  nourished,  but  it  has  rare  charms  for  its 


THE  DECAY  OF  SENTIMENT.  123 

possessor,  and,  being  within  the  reach  of  all, 
grows  daily  in  our  favor.  French  poets,  like 
Gautier  and  Sully  Prudhomme,  have  been  con 
tent  to  strike  all  their  lives  upon  a  single  res 
onant  note,  and  men  of  far  inferior  genius 
have  produced  less  perfect  work  in  the  same 
willfully  restricted  vein.  The  pressure  of  the 
outside  world  sorely  chafes  these  unresponsive 
natures ;  large  issues  paralyze  their  pens. 
They  turn  by  instinct  from  the  coarseness,  the 
ugliness,  the  realness  of  life,  and  sing  of  it 
with  graceful  sadness  and  with  delicate  laugh 
ter,  as  if  the  whole  thing  were  a  pathetic  or  a 
fantastic  dream.  They  are  dumb  before  its 
riddles  and  silent  in  its  uproar,  standing  apart 
from  the  tumult,  and  letting  the  impetuous 
crowd  —  "  mostly  fools,"  as  Carlyle  said  — 
sweep  by  them  unperceived.  Herrick  is  their 
prototype,  the  poet  who  polished  off  his  little 
glittering  verses  about  Julia's  silks  and  Dia- 
neme's  ear-rings  when  all  England  was  dark 
with  civil  war.  But  even  this  armed  neutral 
ity,  this  genuine  and  admirable  indifference, 
cannot  always  save  us  from  the  rough  knocks 
of  a  burly  and  aggressive  world.  The  revolu 
tion,  which  he  ignored,  drove  Herrick  from 


124  BOOKS  AND   MEN. 

his  peaceful  vicarage  into  the  poverty  and 
gloom  of  London ;  the  siege  of  Paris  played 
sad  havoc  with  Gautier's  artistic  tranquillity, 
and  devoured  the  greater  part  of  his  modest 
fortune.  We  are  tethered  to  our  kind,  and 
may  as  well  join  hands  in  the  struggle.  Vex 
ation  is  no  heavier  than  ennui,  and  "  he  who 
lives  without  folly,"  says  Rochefoucauld,  "is 
hardly  so  wise  as  he  thinks." 


CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM. 

THERE  is  a  growing  tendency  on  the  part  of 
literary  men  to  resent  what  they  are  pleased 
to  consider  the  unwarrantable  interference  of 
the  critic.  His  ministrations  have  probably 
never  been  sincerely  gratifying  to  their  recipi 
ents  ;  Marsyas  could  hardly  have  enjoyed  be 
ing  flayed  by  Apollo,  even  though  he  knew  his 
music  was  bad  ;  and  worse,  far  worse,  than 
the  most  caustic  severity  are  the  few  careless 
words  that  dismiss  our  cherished  aspirations 
as  not  even  worthy  the  rueful  dignity  of  pun 
ishment.  But  in  former  days  the  victim,  if  he 
resented  such  treatment  at  all,  resented  it  in 
the  spirit  of  Lord  Byron,  who,  roused  to  a 
healthy  and  vigorous  wrath, 

"  expressed  his  royal  views 
In  language  such  as  gentlemen  are  seldom  known  to  use," 

and  by  a  comprehensive  and  impartial  attack 
on  all  the  writers  of  his  time  proved  himself 
both  able  and  willing  to  handle  the  weapons 


126  BOOKS  AND   MEN. 

that  had  wounded  him.  On  the  other  side, 
those  authors  whose  defensive  powers  were  of 
a  less  prompt  and  efficient  character  ventured 
no  nearer  to  a  quarrel  than  —  to  borrow  a 
simile  of  George  Eliot's  —  a  water-fowl  that 
puts  out  its  leg  in  a  deprecating  manner  can 
be  said  to  quarrel  with  a  boy  who  throws 
stones.  Southey,  who  of  all  men  entertained 
the  most  comfortable  opinion  of  his  own  mer 
its,  must  have  been  deeply  angered  by  the 
treatment  Thalaba  and  Madoc  received  from 
the  Edinburgh  Review  ;  yet  we  cannot  see  that 
either  he  or  his  admirers  looked  upon  Jeffrey 
in  any  other  light  than  that  of  a  tyrannical 
but  perfectly  legitimate  authority.  Far  nobler 
victims  suffered  from  the  same  bitter  sting, 
and  they  too  nursed  their  wounds  in  a  deco 
rous  silence. 

But  it  is  very  different  to-day,  when  every 
injured  aspirant  to  the  Temple  of  Fame  as 
sures  himself  and  a  sympathizing  public,  not 
that  a  particular  critic  is  mistaken  in  his  par 
ticular  case,  which  we  may  safely  take  for 
granted,  but  that  all  critics  are  necessarily 
wrong  in  all  cases,  through  an  abnormal  de 
velopment  of  what  the  catechism  terms  "  dark- 


CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM.  127 

ness  of  the  understanding  and  a  propensity  to 
evil."  This  amiable  theory  was,  I  think,  first 
advanced  by  Lord  Beaconsfield,  who  sorely 
needed  some  such  emollient  for  his  bruises. 
In  Lothair,  when  that  truly  remarkable  ar 
tist  Mr.  Gaston  Phrebus,  accompanied  by  his 
sister-in-law  Miss  Euphrosyne  Cantacuzene, 
—  Heaven  help  their  unhappy  sponsors  !  — 
reveals  to  his  assembled  guests  the  picture  he 
has  just  completed,  we  are  told  that  his  air 
"  was  elate,  and  was  redeemed  from  arrogance 
only  by  the  intellect  of  his  brow.  '  To-mor 
row,'  he  said,  '  the  critics  will  commence. 
You  know  who  the  critics  are  ?  The  men  who 
have  failed  in  literature  and  art.' '  If  Lord 
Beaconsfield  thought  to  disarm  his  foes  by  this 
ingenious  device,  he  was  most  signally  mis 
taken  ;  for  while  several  of  the  reviews  were 
deferentially  hinting  that  perhaps  the  book 
might  not  be  so  very  bad  as  it  seemed,  Black- 
wood  stepped  alertly  to  the  front,  and  in  a 
criticism  unsurpassed  for  caustic  wit  and  mer 
ciless  raillery  held  up  each  feeble  extravagance 
to  the  inextinguishable  laughter  of  the  world. 
Even  now,  when  few  people  venture  upon  the 
palatial  dreariness  of  the  novel  itself,  there  is 


128  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

no  better  way  of  insuring  a  mirthful  hour  than 
by  re  -  reading  this  vigorous  and  trenchant 
satire. 

Quite  recently  two  writers,  one  on  either 
side  of  the  Atlantic,  have  echoed  with  super 
fluous  bitterness  their  conviction  of  the  total 
depravity  of  the  critic.  Mr.  Edgar  Fawcett, 
in  The  House  on  High  Bridge,  and  Mr.  J.  R. 
Rees,  in  The  Pleasures  of  a  Book- Worm, 
seem  to  find  the  English  language  painfully 
inadequate  for  the  forcible  expression  of  their 
displeasure.  Mr.  Fawcett  considers  all  critics 
"inconsistent  when  they  are  not  regrettably 
ignorant,"  and  fails  to  see  any  use  for  them  in 
an  enlightened  world.  "  It  is  marvelous,"  he 
reflects,  "  how  long  we  tolerate  an  absurdity 
of  injustice  before  suddenly  waking  up  to  it. 
And  what  can  be  a  more  clear  absurdity  than 
that  some  one  individual  caprice,  animus,  or 
even  honest  judgment  should  be  made  to  in 
fluence  the  public  regarding  any  new  book?  " 
Moreover,  he  has  discovered  that  the  men  and 
women  who  write  the  reviews  are  mere  "  un 
derpaid  vendors  of  opinions,"  who  earn  their 
breakfasts  and  dinners  by  saying  disagreeable 
things  about  authors,  "  their  superiors  beyond 


CURIOSITIES   OF  CRITICISM.  129 

expression."  But  it  is  only  fair  to  remind 
Mr.  Fawcett  that  no  particular  disgrace  is  in- 
volved  in  earning  one's  breakfasts  and  din 
ners.  On  the  contrary,  hunger  is  a  perfectly 
legitimate  and  very  valuable  incentive  to  in 
dustry.  "  God  help  the  bear,  if,  having  little 
else  to  eat,  he  must  not  even  suck  his  own 
paws !  "  wrote  Sir  Walter  Scott,  with  good- 
humored  contempt,  when  Lord  Byron  accused 
him  of  being  a  mercenary  poet ;  and  we  prob 
ably  owe  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  The  Li 
brary,  and  Venice  Preserved  to  their  authors' 
natural  and  unavoidable  craving  for  food. 
Besides,  if  the  reviewers  are  underpaid,  it  is 
not  so  much  their  fault  as  that  of  their  em 
ployers,  and  their  breakfasts  and  dinners  must 
be  proportionately  light.  When  Milton  re 
ceived  five  pounds  for  Paradise  Lost,  he  was 
probably  the  most  underpaid  writer  in  the 
whole  history  of  literature,  yet  Mr.  Mark  Pat- 
tison  seems  to  think  that  this  fact  redounds. to 
his  especial  honor. 

But  there  are  even  worse  things  to  be 
learned  about  the  critic  than  that  he  sells  his 
opinions  for  food.  According  to  Mr.  Fawcett 
he  is  distinguished  for  "  real,  hysterical,  vigi- 


130  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

lant,  unhealthy  sensitiveness,"  and  nurses  this 
unpleasant  feeling  to  such  a  degree  that, 
should  an  author  object  to  being  ill-treated  at 
his  hands,  the  critic  is  immediately  offended 
into  saying  something  more  abominable  still. 
In  fact,  like  an  uncompromising  mother  I  once 
knew,  who  always  punished  her  children  till 
they  looked  pleasant,  he  requires  his  smarting 
victims  to  smile  beneath  the  rod.  Happily 
there  is  a  cure,  and  a  very  radical  one,  too, 
for  this  painful  state  of  affairs.  Mr.  Fawcett 
proposes  that  all  such  offenders  should  be 
obliged  to  buy  the  work  which  they  dissect, 
rightly  judging  that  the  book  notices  would 
grow  beautifully  less  under  such  stringent 
treatment.  Indeed,  were  it  extended  a  little 
further,  and  all  readers  obliged  to  buy  the 
books  they  read,  the  publishers,  the  sellers, 
and  the  reviewers  might  spare  the  time  to 
take  a  holiday  together. 

Mr.  Rees  is  quite  as  severe  and  much  more 
ungrateful  in  his  strictures  ;  for,  after  stating 
that  the  misbehavior  of  the  critic  is  a  source 
of  great  amusement  to  the  thoughtful  stu 
dent,  he  proceeds  to  chastise  that  misbehavior, 
as  though  it  had  never  entertained  him  at  all. 


CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM.  131 

In  his  opinion,  the  reviewer,  being  guided  ex 
clusively  by  a  set  of  obsolete  and  worthless 
rules,  is  necessarily  incapable  of  recognizing 
genius  under  any  new  development :  "  He 
usually  is  as  little  fitted  to  deal  with  the  tasks 
he  sets  himself  as  a  manikin  is  to  growl  about 
the  anatomy  of  a  star,  setting  forth  at  the 
same  time  his  own  thoughts  as  to  how  it 
should  be  formed."  Vanity  is  the  mainspring 
of  his  actions :  "  He  fears  to  be  thought  be 
neath  his  author,  and  so  doles  out  a  limited 
number  of  praises  and  an  unlimited  quantity 
of  slur."  Like  the  Welshman,  he  strikes  in 
the  dark,  thus  escaping  just  retribution  ;  and 
in  his  stupid  ignorance  he  seeks  to  "  rein  in 
the  winged  steed,"  from  having  no  conception 
of  its  aerial  powers. 

Now  this  is  a  formidable  indictment,  and 
some  of  the  charges  may  be  not  without  foun 
dation  ;  but  if,  as  too  often  happens,  the 
*'  winged  steed  "  is  merely  a  donkey  standing 
ambitiously  on  its  hind  legs,  who  but  the 
critic  can  compel  it  to  resume  its  quadru 
pedal  attitude?  If,  as  Mr.  Walter  Bagehot 
warned  us  some  years  ago,  "  reading  is  about 
to  become  a  series  of  collisions  against  aggra- 


132  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

vated  breakers,  of  beatings  with  imaginary 
surf,"  who  but  the  critic  can  steer  us  safely 
through  the  storm  ?  Never,  in  fact,  were  his 
duties  more  sharply  defined  or  more  sorely 
needed  than  at  present,  when  the  average 
reader,  like  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Boffin,  stands 
bewildered  by  the  Scarers  in  Print,  and  finds 
life  all  too  short  for  their  elucidation.  The 
self-satisfied  who  "know  what  they  prefer," 
and  read  accordingly,  are  like  the  enthusiasts 
who  follow  their  own  consciences  without  first 
accurately  ascertaining  whither  they  are  being 
taken.  It  has  been  well  said  that  the  object  of 
criticism  is  simply  to  clear  the  air  about  great 
work  for  the  benefit  of  ordinary  people.  We 
only  waste  our  powers  when  we  refuse  a  guide, 
and  by  forcing  our  minds  hither  and  thither, 
like  navigators  exploring  each  new  stream 
while  ignorant  of  its  course  and  current,  we 
squander  in  idle  researches  the  time  and 
thought  which  should  send  us  steadily  for 
ward  on  our  road.  Worse  still,  we  vitiate 
our  judgments  by  perverse  and  presumptuous 
conclusions,  and  weaken  our  untrained  facul 
ties  by  the  very  methods  we  hoped  would 
speed  their  growth.  If  Mr.  Ruskin  and  Mr. 


CURIOSITIES   OF  CRITICISM.  133 

Matthew  Arnold  resemble  each  other  in  noth 
ing  else,  they  have  both  taught  earnestly  and 
persistently,  through  long  and  useful  lives,  the 
supreme  necessity  of  law,  the  supreme  merit 
of  obedience.  Mr.  Arnold  preached  it  with 
logical  coldness,  after  his  fashion,  and  Mr. 
Ruskin  with  illogical  impetuosity,  after  his ; 
but  the  lesson  remains  practically  the  same. 
"  All  freedom  is  error,"  writes  the  author  of 
Queen  of  the  Air,  who  is  at  least  blessed  with 
the  courage  of  his  convictions.  "  Every  line 
you  lay  down  is  either  right  or  wrong :  it  may 
be  timidly  and  awkwardly  wrong,  or  fearlessly 
and  impudently  wrong  ;  the  aspect  of  the  im 
pudent  wrongness  is  pleasurable  to  vulgar  per 
sons,  and  is  what  they  commonly  call  '  free ' 
execution.  ...  I  have  hardly  patience  to 
hold  my  pen  and  go  on  writing,  as  I  remem 
ber  the  infinite  follies  of  modern  thought  in 
this  matter,  centred  in  the  notion  that  liberty 
is  good  for  a  man,  irrespectively  of  the  use  he 
is  likely  to  make  of  it." 

But  he  does  go  on  writing,  nevertheless, 
long  after  this  slender  stock  of  patience  is  ex 
hausted,  and  in  his  capacity  of  critic  he  lays 
down  Draconian  laws  which  his  disciples  seem 


134  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

bound  to  wear  as  a  heavy  yoke  around  their 
necks.  "  Who  made  Mr.  Ruskin  a  judge  or 
a  nursery  governess  over  us  ?  "  asks  an  irrev 
erent  contributor  to  Macmillan ;  and  why, 
after  all,  should  we  abstain  from  reading  Dar 
win,  and  Grote,  and  Coleridge,  and  Kingsley, 
and  Thackeray,  and  a  host  of  other  writers, 
who  may  or  may  not  be  gratifying  to  our  own 
tastes,  because  Mr.  Ruskin  has  tried  and 
found  them  wanting  ?  It  is  not  the  province 
of  a  critic  to  bar  us  in  a  wholesale  manner 
from  all  authors  he  does  not  chance  to  like, 
but  to  aid  us,  by  his  practiced  judgment,  to 
extract  what  is  good  from  every  field,  and  to 
trace,  as  far  as  in  us  lies,  those  varying  de 
grees  of  excellence  which  it  is  to  our  advan 
tage  to  discern.  It  was  in  this  way  that  Mr. 
Arnold,  working  with  conscientious  and  dis 
passionate  serenity,  opened  our  eyes  to  new 
beauty,  and  strengthened  us  against  vicious 
influences ;  he  added  to  our  sources  of  pleas 
ure,  he  helped  us  to  enjoy  them,  and  not  to 
recognize  his  kindly  aid  would  be  an  ungra 
cious  form  of  self-deception.  If  he  were  oc 
casionally  a  little  puzzling,  as  in  some  parts 
of  Celtic  Literature,  where  the  qualities  he 


CURIOSITIES   OF  CRITICISM.  135 

detected  fall  meaningless  on  our  ears,  it  is  a 
wholesome  lesson  in  humility  to  acknowledge 
our  bewilderment.  Why  should  the  lines 

"What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  quiet  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk  this  pious  morn  ?  ' ' 

be  the  expression  of  a  purely  Greek  form  of 
thought,  "  as  Greek  as  a  thing  from  Homer  or 
Theocritus ;  "  and 

' '  In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido,  with  a  willow  in  her  hand, 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  waved  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage," 

be  as  purely  Celtic  ?     Why  should 

"  I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows  " 

be  Greek,  and 

"  Fast-fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves  " 

be  Celtic?  That  harmless  nondescript,  the 
general  reader,  be  he  ever  so  anxious  for  en 
lightenment,  is  forced  to  confess  he  really  does 
not  know  ;  and  if  his  ignorance  be  of  the  com 
placent  order,  he  adds  an  impatient  doubt  as 
to  whether  Mr.  Arnold  knew  either,  just  as 
when  he  "  comes  up  gasping  "  from  a  sudden 
plunge  into  Browning,  he  is  prompt  to  declare 
his  firm  conviction  that  the  poet  never  had  the 
faintest  idea  what  he  was  writing  about. 


136  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

But  there  is  another  style  of  enigma  with 
which  critics  are  wont  to  harry  and  perplex  us, 
and  one  has  need  of  a  "  complication-proof 
mind,"  like  Sir  George  Cornewall  Lewis,  to 
see  clearly  through  the  tangle.  Mr.  Churton 
Collins,  in  his  bitter  attack  on  Mr.  Gosse  in 
the  Quarterly  Keview,  objected  vehemently  to 
ever-varying  descriptions  of  a  single  theme. 
He  did  not  think  that  if  Drayton's  Barons' 
Wars  be  a  "  serene  and  lovely  poem,"  it  could 
well  have  a  "  passionate  music  running  through 
it,"  or  possess  "  irregular  force  and  sudden 
brilliance  of  style."  Perhaps  he  was  right ; 
but  there  are  few  critics  who  can  help  us  to 
know  and  feel  a  poem  like  Mr.  Gosse,  and 
fewer  still  who  write  with  such  consummate 
grace  and  charm.  It  is  only  when  we  pass 
from  one  reviewer  to  another  that  the  shifting 
lights  thrown  upon  an  author  dazzle  and  con 
fuse  us.  Like  the  fifty-six  different  readings 
of  the  first  line  of  the  Orlando  Furioso,  there 
are  countless  standpoints  from  which  we  are 
invited  to  inspect  each  and  every  subject ;  and 
unless  we  follow  the  admirable  example  of  Mr. 
Courthope,  who  solves  a  difficulty  by  gently 
saying,  "  The  matter  is  one  not  for  argument, 


CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM.  137 

but  for  perception,"  we  are  lost  in  the  mazes 
of  indecision.  Thus  Mr.  Ruskin  demonstrates 
most  beautifully  the  great  superiority  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  heroines  over  his  heroes,  and 
by  the  time  we  settle  our  minds  to  this  convic 
tion  we  find  that  Mr.  Bagehot,  that  most  acute 
and  exhausting  of  critics,  thinks  the  heroines 
inferior  in  every  way,  and  that  Sir  Walter 
was  truly  felicitous  only  in  his  male  characters. 
Happily,  this  is  a  point  on  which  we  should 
be  able  to  decide  for  ourselves  without  much 
prompting;  but  all  disputed  topics  are  not 
equally  intelligible.  There  is  the  vexed  and 
vexing  question  of  romantic  and  classical, 
conservative  and  liberal  poetry,  about  which 
Mr.  Courthope  and  Mr.  Andrew  Lang  and 
Mr.  Myers  have  had  so  much  to  say  of  late, 
and  which  is,  at  best,  but  a  dimly  lighted  path 
for  the  uninitiated  to  travel.  There  is  that 
perpetual  problem,  Mr.  Walt  Whitman,  the 
despair  and  the  stumbling-block  of  critics,  to 
whose  extraordinary  effusions,  as  the  Quarterly 
Review  neatly  puts  it,  "existing  standards 
cannot  be  applied  with  exactness."  There  is 
Emily  Bronte,  whose  verses  we  were  permitted 
for  years  to  ignore,  and  in  whom  we  are  now 


138  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

peremptorily  commanded  to  recognize  a  true 
poet.  Miss  Mary  Robinson,  who,  in  common 
with  most  female  biographers,  is  an  enthusiast 
rather  than  a  critic,  never  wearies  of  praising 
the  "  splendid  and  vigorous  movement "  of 
Emily  Bronte's  poems,  "  with  their  surplus 
imagination,  their  sweeping  impressiveness, 
their  instinctive  music  and  irregular  Tightness 
of  form."  On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Gosse, 
while  acknowledging  in  them  a  very  high 
order  of  merit,  laments  that  such  burning 
thoughts  should  be  "concealed  for  the  most 
part  in  the  tame  and  ambling  measures  dedi 
cated  to  female  verse  by  the  practice  of  Felicia 
Hemans  and  Letitia  Landon."  So  far,  in 
deed,  from  recognizing  the  "  vigorous  move 
ment  "  and  "  irregular  Tightness  of  form " 
which  Miss  Robinson  so  much  admires,  he 
describes  A  Death  Scene,  one  of  the  finest  in 
point  of  conception,  as  "  clothed  in  a  measure 
that  is  like  the  livery  of  a  charitable  institu 
tion."  "  There  's  allays  two  'pinions,"  says 
Mr.  Macey,  in  Silas  Marner ;  but  we  cannot 
help  sometimes  wishing,  in  the  cause  of  per 
spicuity,  that  they  were  not  so  radically  dif 
ferent. 


CURIOSITIES   OF  CRITICISM.  139 

As  for  the  pure  absurdities  of  criticism,  they 
may  be  culled  like  flowers  from  every  branch, 
and  are  pleasing  curiosities  for  those  who  have 
a  liking  for  such  relics.     Were  human  nature 
less   complacent   in   its   self-sufficiency,  they 
might  even  serve  as  useful  warnings  to  the  im 
petuous  young  reviewers  of  to-day,  and  so  be 
not  without  their  salutary  influence  on  litera 
ture.     Whether   the   result  of    ignorance,  or 
dullness,  or  bad  temper,  of  national  or   reli 
gious  prejudices,  or  of    mere   personal  pique, 
they  have  boldly  challenged  the  ridicule  of  the 
world,  and  its  amused  contempt  has  pilloried 
them  for  all  time.     When  Voltaire  sneered  at 
the  Inferno,  and  thought  Hamlet  the  work  of 
a  drunken  savage,  he  at  least  made  a  bid  for 
the  approbation  of  his  countrymen,  who,  as 
Schlegel  wittily  observes,  were  in  the  habit  of 
speaking  as  though  Louis  XIV.  had  put  an 
end  to  cannibalism  in  Europe.     But  what  did 
Englishmen  think  when  Hume  informed  them 
that  Shakespeare  was  "  born   in   a  rude  age, 
and   educated   in  the  lowest  manner,  without 
instruction   from  the  world  or  from  books ;  " 
and  that  he  could  not  uphold  for  any  time  "  a 
reasonable  propriety  of  thought "  ?     How  did 


140  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

they  feel  when  William  Maginn  brutally  de 
clared  that  Keats 

"  the  doubly  dead 
In  that  lie  died  so  young," 

was  but  a  cockney  poet,  who  wrote  vulgar  in 
decorums,  "  probably  in  the  indulgence  of  his 
social  propensities  "  ?  How  did  they  feel  when 
the  same  Maginn  called  the  Adonais  "  dreary 
nonsense  "  and  "  a  wild  waste  of  words,"  and 
devoted  bitter  pages  to  proving  that  Shelley 
was  not  only  undeserving,  but  "  hopeless  of 
poetic  reputation  "  ?  Yet  surely  indignation 
must  have  melted  into  laughter,  when  this 
notable  reviewer  —  who  has  been  recently  re 
printed  as  a  shining  light  for  the  new  genera 
tion  —  added  serenely  that  "  a  hundred  or  a 
hundred  thousand  verses  might  be  made,  equal 
to  the  best  in  Adonais,  without  taking  the  pen 
off  the  paper."  This  species  of  sweeping  as 
sertion  has  been  repeated  by  critics  more  than 
once,  to  the  annoyance  of  their  friends  and 
the  malicious  delight  of  their  enemies.  Rus-* 
kin,  who,  with  all  his  gifts,  seems  cursed  with 
what  Mr.  Bagehot  calls  "  a  mind  of  contrary 
flexure,  whose  particular  bent  it  is  to  contra 
dict  what  those  around  them  say,"  has  ven- 


CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM.  141 

tured  to  tell  the  world  that  any  head  clerk  of 
a  bank  could  write  a  better  history  of  Greece 
than  Mr.  Grote,  if  he  would  have  the  vanity  to 
waste  his  time  over  it ;  and  I  have  heard  a  man 
of  fair  attainments  and  of  sound  scholarship 
contend  that  there  were  twenty  living  authors 
who  could  write  plays  as  fine  as  Shakespeare's. 
Jeffrey's  extraordinary  blunders  are  too  well 
known  to  need  repetition,  and  Christopher 
North  was  not  without  his  share  of  similar 
mishaps  ;  Walpole  cheerfully  sentenced  Scan 
dinavian  poetry  in  the  bulk  as  the  horrors  of 
a  Runic  savage  ;  Madame  de  Stael  objected 
to  the  "  commonness  "  of  Miss  Austen's  nov 
els  ;  Wordsworth  thought  Voltaire  dull,  and 
Southey  complained  that  Lamb's  essays  lacked 
"  sound  religious  feeling  ;  "  George  Borrow, 
whose  literary  tastes  were  at  least  as  erratic  as 
they  were  pronounced,  condemned  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  Woodstock  as  "  tiresome,  trashy,  and 
unprincipled,"  and  ranked  Shakespeare,  Pope, 
Addison,  and  the  Welsh  bard  Huw  Morris  to 
gether  as  "  great  poets,"  apparently  without 
recognizing  any  marked  difference  in  their  re 
spective  claims.  Then  there  is  Taine,  who 
finds  Pendennis  and  Vanity  Fair  too  full  of 


142  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

sermons ;  Mr.  Dudley  Warner,  who  compares 
the  mild  and  genial  humor  of  Washington 
Irving  to  the  acrid  vigor  of  Swift ;  and  Mr. 
Howells,  who,  perhaps  in  pity  for  our  sense 
of  loss,  would  fain  persuade  us  that  we  could 
no  longer  endure  either  the  "  mannerisms  " 
of  Dickens  or  the  "  confidential  attitude "  of 
Thackeray,  were  we  happy  enough  to  see  these 
great  men  still  in  our  midst. 

Imagine,  ye  who  can,  the  fiery  Hazlitt's 
wrath,  if  he  but  knew  that  in  punishment  for 
his  youthful  admiration  of  the  Nouvelle  He-' 
lo'ise  a  close  resemblance  has  been  traced  by 
friendly  hands  between  himself  and  its  author. 
Think  of  Lord  Byron's  feelings,  if  he  could 
hear  Mr.  Swinburne  saying  that  it  was  greatly 
to  his  —  Byron's  —  credit  that  he  knew  him 
self  for  a  third-rate  poet !  Even  though  it  be 
the  only  thing  to  his  credit  that  Swinburne 
has  so  far  discovered,  one  doubts  whether  it 
would  greatly  mollify  his  lordship,  or  reconcile 
him  to  being  classed  as  a  "  Bernesque  poet," 
and  the  companion  of  those  two  widely  differ 
ent  creatures,  Southey  and  Offenbach.  Per 
haps,  indeed,  his  lively  sense  of  humor  would 
derive  a  more  positive  gratification  from 


CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM.  143 

watching  his  angry  critic  run  amuck  through 
adjectives  with  frenzied  agility.  Such  sen 
tences  as  "  the  blundering,  floundering,  lum 
bering,  and  stumbling  stanzas  of  Childe  Har 
old,  .  .  .  the  gasping,  ranting,  wheezing, 
broken-winded  verse,  .  .  .  the  hideous  absurd 
ities  and  jolter-headed  jargon,"  must  surely  be 
less  deeply  offensive  to  Lord  Byron's  admirers 
than  to  Mr.  Swinburne's.  They  come  as  near 
to  describing  the  noble  beauty  of  Childe  Har 
old  as  does  Southey's  senseless  collection  of 
words  to  describing  the  cataract  of  Lodore, 
or  any  other  cataract  in  existence  ;  and,  since 
the  days  when  Milton  and  Salmasius  hurled 
'*  Latin  billingsgate  "  at  each  other's  heads, 
we  have  had  no  stronger  argument  in  favor  of 
the  comeliness  of  moderation. 

"  The  most  part  of  Mr.  Swinburne's  criti 
cism,"  hints  a  recent  reviewer,  "  is  surely  very 
much  of  a  personal  matter,  —  personal,  one 
may  say,  in  expression  as  well  as  in  sensation." 
He  has  always  a  "  neat  hand  at  an  epithet," 
and  the  "  jolter-headed  jargon  "  of  Byron  is 
no  finer  in  its  way  than  the  "  fanfaronade  and 
falsetto  of  Gray."  But  even  the  charms  of 
alliteration,  joined  to  the  fish-wife's  slang 


144  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

which  has  recently  so  tickled  the  fancy  of 
Punch,1  cannot  wholly  replace  that  clear 
headed  serenity  which  is  the  true  test  of  a  crit 
ic's  worth  and  the  most  pleasing  expression  of 
his  genius.  He  should  have  110  visible  inclina 
tion  to  praise  or  blame  ;  it  is  not  his  business, 
as  Mr.  Bagehot  puts  it,  to  be  thankful,  and 
neither  is  he  the  queen's  attorney  pleading  for 
conviction.  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold,  who  con 
sidered  that  Byron  was  "  the  greatest  natural 
force,  the  greatest  elementary  power,  which 
has  appeared  in  our  literature  since  Shake 
speare,"  presented  his  arguments  plainly  and 
without  the  faintest  show  of  enthusiasm.  He 
did  not  feel  the  need  of  reviling  somebody 
else  in  order  to  emphasize  his  views,  and  he 
did  not  care  to  advance  opinions  without  some 
satisfactory  explanation  of  their  existence. 
Mr.  Courthope  may  content  himself  with  say 
ing  that  a  matter  is  one  not  for  argument,  but 
for  perception  ;  but  Mr.  Arnold  gave  a  reason 
for  the  faith  that  was  in  him.  Mere  prefer 
ence  on  the  part  of  a  critic  is  not  a  sufficient 
sanction  for  his  verdicts,  or  at  least  it  does  not 

1  "  But  when  poet  Swinburne  steps  into  the  fray, 

And  slangs  like  a  fish- wife,  what,  what  can  one  say  ?  " 


CURIOSITIES   OF   CRITICISM.  145 

warrant  his  imparting  them  to  the  public. 
Swinburne  may  honestly  think  four  lines  of 
Wordsworth  to  be  of  more  value  than  the 
whole  of  Byron,  but  that  is  no  reason  why 
we  should  think  so  too.  When  Mr.  George 
Saintsbury  avows  a  strong  personal  liking  for 
some  favorite  authors,  —  Borrow  and  Peacock, 
for  instance,  —  he  modestly  states  that  this 
fact  is  not  in  itself  a  convincing  proof  of  their 
merit ;  but  when  Mr.  Ernest  Myers  says  that 
he  would  sacrifice  the  whole  of  Childe  Har 
old  to  preserve  one  of  Macaulay's  Lays,  he 
seems  to  be  offering  a  really  impressive  piece 
of  evidence.  The  tendency  of  critics  to  rush 
into  print  with  whatever  they  chance  to  think 
has  resulted  in  readers  who  naturally  believe 
that  what  they  think  is  every  bit  as  good. 
Macaulay  and  Walter  Savage  Landor  are  both 
instances  of  men  whose  unusual  powers  of  dis 
cernment  were  too  often  dimmed  by  their  prej 
udices.  Macaulay  knew  that  Montgomery's 
poetry  was  bad,  but  he  failed  to  see  that  Fou- 
que's  prose  was  good;  and  Landor  hit  right 
and  left,  amid  friends  and  foes,  like  the 
blinded  Ajax  scourging  the  harmless  flocks. 
It  is  quite  as  amusing  and  far  less  painful 


146  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

to  turn  from  the  critics'  indiscriminate  abuse 
to  their  equally  indiscriminate  praise,  and  to 
read  the  glowing  tributes  heaped  upon  authors 
whose  mediocrity  has  barely  saved  them  from 
oblivion.  Compare  the  universal  rapture  which 
greeted  "  the  majestick  numbers  of  Mr.  Cow- 
ley  "  to  the  indifference  which  gave  scant  wel 
come  to  the  Hesperides.  Mr.  Gosse  tells  us 
that  for  half  a  century  Katherine  Philips,  the 
matchless  Orinda,  was  an  unquestioned  light 
in  English  song.  "  Her  name  was  mentioned 
with  those  of  Sappho  and  Corinna,  and  lan 
guage  was  used  without  reproach  which  would 
have  seemed  a  little  fulsome  if  addressed  to 
the  Muse  herself." 

"  For,  as  in  angels,  we 

Do  in  thy  verses  see 
Both  improved  sexes  eminently  meet ; 

They  are  than  Man  more  strong,  and  more  than  Woman 
sweet." 

So  sang  Cowley  to  this  much  admired  lady ; 
and  the  Earl  of  Roscommon,  in  some  more  ex 
travagant  and  amusing  stanzas,  asserted  it  to 
be  his  unique  experience  that,  on  meeting  a 
pack  of  angry  wolves  in  Scythia, 

"  The  magic  of  Orinda' s  name 
Not- only  can  their  fierceness  tame, 


-€&R10SITIES   OF  CRITICISM.  147 

But,  if  that  mighty  word  I  once  rehearse, 
They  seem  submissively  to  roar  in  verse." 

"  It  is  easier  to  flatter  than  to  praise,"  says 
Jean  Paul,  but  even  flattery  is  not  always  the 
facile  work  it  seems. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  was  strangely  dis« 
posed  to  undervalue  his  own  merit  as  a  poet, 
preserved  the  most  genuine  enthusiasm  for  the 
work  of  others.  When  his  little  daughter  was 
asked  by  James  Ballantyne  what  she  thought 
of  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  she  answered  with 
perfect  simplicity  that  she  had  not  read  it. 
"  Papa  says  there  is  nothing  so  bad  for  young 
people  as  reading  bad  poetry."  Yet  Sir  Wal 
ter  always  spoke  of  Madoc  and  Thalaba  with 
a  reverence  that  would  seem  ludicrous  were  it 
not  so  frankly  sincere.  Southey  himself  could 
not  have  admired  them  more  ;  and  when  Jeffrey 
criticised  Madoc  with  flippant  severity  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review,  we  find  Scott  hastening  to 
the  rescue  in  a  letter  full  of  earnest  and  sooth 
ing  praise.  "  A  poem  whose  merits  are  of  that 
higher  tone,"  he  argues,  "  does  not  immediately 
take  with  the  public  at  large.  It  is  even  possi 
ble  that  during  your  own  life  you  must  be  con 
tented  with  the  applause  of  the  few  whom  na- 


148  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

ture  has  gifted  with  the  rare  taste  for  discrim 
inating  in  poetry.  But  the  mere  readers  of 
verse  must  one  day  come  in,  and  then  Madoc 
will  assume  his  real  place,  at  the  feet  of  Mil 
ton."  1  The  mere  readers  of  verse,  being  in 
no  wise  responsible  for  Milton's  position  in  lit 
erature,  have  so  far  put  no  one  at  his  feet ;  nor 
have  they  even  verified  Sir  Walter's  judgment 
when,  writing  again  to  Southey,  he  says  with 
astonishing  candor,  "  I  am  not  such  an  ass  as 
not  to  know  that  you  are  my  better  in  poetry, 
though  I  have  had,  probably  but  for  a  time, 
the  tide  of  popularity  in  my  favor."  The 
same  spirit  of  self -depreciation,  rare  enough  to 
be  attractive,  made  him  write  to  Joanna  Bail- 
lie  that,  after  reading  some  of  her  songs,  he 
had  thrust  by  his  own  in  despair. 

But  if  Sir  Walter  was  an  uncertain  critic, 
his  views  on  criticism  were  marked  by  sound 
and  kindly  discretion,  and  his  patience  under 
attack  was  the  result  of  an  evenly  balanced 
mind,  conscious  of  its  own  strength,  yet  too 

1  Compare  Charles  Lamb's  letter  to  Coleridge:  "  On  the 
•whole  I  expect  Southey  one  day  to  rival  Milton  ;  I  already 
deem  him  equal  to  Cowper,  and  superior  to  all  living  poets 
besides." 


CURIOSITIES  OF   CRITICISM.  149 

sane  to  believe  itself  infallible.  He  had  a  sin 
gular  fancy  for  showing  his  manuscripts  to  his 
friends,  and  it  is  quite  delicious  to  see  how 
doubtful  and  discouraging  were  their  first  com 
ments.  Gray,  when  hard  pressed  by  the  "  light 
and  genteel "  verses  of  his  companion,  Rich 
ard  West,  was  not  more  frugal  of  his  doled- 
out  praises.  But  Scott  exacted  homage  neither 
from  his  acquaintances  nor  from  the  public. 
When  it  came  —  and  it  did  come  very  soon  in 
generous  abundance  —  he  basked  willingly 
in  the  sunshine  ;  but  he  had  no  uneasy  vanity 
to  be  frightened  by  the  shade.  He  would  have 
been  as  sincerely  amused  to  hear  Mr.  Borrow 
call  Woodstock  "  tiresome,  trashy,  and  unprin 
cipled  "  as  Matthew  Arnold  used  to  be  when 
pelted  with  strong  language  by  the  London 
newspapers.  "  I  have  made  a  study  of  the 
Corinthian  or  leading-article  style,"  wrote  the 
great  critic,  with  exasperating  urbanity  ;  "  and 
I  know  its  exigencies,  and  that  they  are  no 
more  to  be  quarreled  with  than  the  law  of 
gravitation."  In  fact,  the  most  hopeless  bar 
rier  to  strife  is  the  steady  indifference  of  a 
man  who  knows  he  has  work  to  do,  and  who 
goes  on  doing  it,  irrespective  of  anybody's 


150  BOOKS  AND   MEN. 

opinion.  Lady  Harriet  Aslibnrton,  who  dearly 
loved  the  war  of  words,  in  which  she  was  sure 
to  be  a  victor,  was  forced  $o  confess  that  where 
no  friction  was  excited,  even  her  barbed  shafts 
fell  harmless.  "  It  is  like  talking  into  a  soft 
.surface,"  she  sighed,  with  whimsical  despond 
ency  ;  "  there  is  no  rebound." 

American  critics  have  the  reputation  of  be 
ing  more  kind-hearted  than  discriminating. 
The  struggling  young  author,  unless  overween- 
ingly  foolish,  has  little  to  fear  from  their 
hands  ;  and,  if  his  reputation  be  once  fairly 
established,  all  he  chooses  to  write  is  received 
with  a  gratitude  which  seems  excessive  to  the 
more  exacting  readers  of  France  and  England. 
If  he  be  a  humorist,  we  are  always  alert  and 
straining  to  see  the  fun ;  if  a  story-teller,  we 
politely  smother  our-  yawns,  and  say  something 
about  a  keen  analysis  of  character,  a  marked 
originality  of  treatment,  or  a  purely  unconven 
tional  theme  ;  if  a  scholar,  no  pitfalls  are  dug 
for  his  unwary  feet  by  reviewers  like  Mr.  Col 
lins.  Such  virulent  and  personal  attacks  we 
consider  very  uncomfortable  reading,  as  in 
truth  they  are,  and  we  have  small  appetite  at 
any  time  for  a  sound  kernel  beneath  a  bitter 


CURIOSITIES   OF   CRITICISM.  151 

rind.  Yet  surely  in  these  days,  when  young 
students  turn  impatiently  from  the  very  foun 
tain-heads  of  learning,  too  much  stress  cannot 
be  laid  on  the  continuity  of  literature,  and  on 
the  absolute  importance  of  the  classics  to  those 
who  would  intelligently  explore  the  treasure- 
house  of  English  verse.  Moreover,  Mr.  Col 
lins  has  aimed  a  few  well-directed  shafts 
against  the  ingenious  system  of  mutual  admira 
tion,  by  which  a  little  coterie  of  writers,  mod 
ern  Delia  Cruscans,  help  each  other  into  prom 
inence,  while  an  unsuspecting  public  is  made 
"  the  willing  dupe  of  puffers,"  This  delicate 
game,  which  is  now  conducted  with  such  well- 
rewarded  skill  by  a  few  enterprising  players, 
consists,  not  so  much  in  open  flattery,  though 
there  is  plenty  of  that  too,  as  in  the  minute 
chronicling  of  every  insignificant  circumstance 
of  each  other's  daily  lives,  from  the  hour  at 
which  they  breakfast  to  the  amount  of  exercise 
they  find  conducive  to  appetite,  and  the  shape 
and  size  of  their  dining-room  tables.  We  are 
stifled  by  the  literary  gossip  which  fills  the 
newspapers  and  periodicals.  Nothing  is  too 
trivial,  nothing  too  irrelevant,  to  be  told  ;  and 
when,  in  the  midst  of  an  article  on  any  subject, 


152  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

from  grand-dukes  to  gypsies,  a  writer  gravely 
stops  to  explain  that  a  perfectly  valueless  re 
mark  was  made  to  him  on  such  an  occasion 
by  his  friend  such  a  one,  whose  interesting  pa 
pers  on  such  a  topic  will  be  well  remembered 
by  the  readers  of  such  a  magazine,  we  are 
forcibly  reminded  of  the  late  Master  of  Trin 
ity's  sarcasm  as  to  the  many  things  that  are 
too  unimportant  to  be  forgotten. 

People  fed  on  sugared  praises  cannot  be  ex 
pected  to  feel  an  appetite  for  the  black  broth 
of  honest  criticism.  There  was  a  time,  now 
happily  past,  when  the  reviewer's  skill  lay 
simply  in  the  clever  detection  of  flaws ;  it  was 
his  business  in  life  to  find  out  whatever  was 
weak  or  absurd  in  an  author,  and  to  hold  it  up 
for  the  amusement  of  those  who  were  not 
quick  enough  to  see  such  things  for  themselves. 
Now  his  functions  are  of  a  totally  different  or 
der,  and  a  great  many  writers  seem  to  think  it 
his  sole  duty  to  bring  them  before  the  public 
in  an  agreeable  light,  to  say  something  about 
their  books  which  will  be  pleasant  for  them  to 
read  and  to  pass  over  in  turn  to  their  friends. 
If  he  cannot  do  this,  it  is  plain  he  has  no  sanc 
tion  to  say  anything  at  all.  That  the  critic 


CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM.  153 

has  a  duty  to  the  public  itself  is  seldom  re 
membered  ;  that  his  work  is  of  the  utmost  im 
portance,  and  second  in  value  only  to  the  orig 
inal  conception  he  analyzes,  is  a  truth  few 
people  take  the  pains  to  grasp.  Coleridge 
thought  him  a  mere  maggot,  battening  upon 
authors'  brains  ;  yet  how  often  has  he  helped 
us  to  gain  some  clear  insight  into  this  most 
shapeless  and  shadowy  of  great  men  !  Words 
worth  underrated  his  utility,  yet  Wordsworth's 
criticisms,  save  those  upon  his  own  poems,  are 
among  the  finest  we  can  read  ;  and,  to  argue 
after  the  fashion  of  Mr.  Myers,  the  aver 
age  student  would  gladly  exchange  The  Idiot 
Boy,  or  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill,  for  an 
other  letter  upon  Dryden.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  labors  of  the  true  critic  are  more  es 
sential  to  the  author,  even,  than  to  the  reader. 
It  is  natural  that  poets  and  novelists  should 
devoutly  believe  that  the  creative  faculty  alone 
is  of  any  true  service  to  the  world,  and  that 
it  cannot  rightly  be  put  to  trial  by  those  to 
whom  this  higher  gift  is  rigorously  denied. 
But  the  critical  power,  though  on  a  distinctly 
lower  level  than  the  creative,  is  of  inestimable 
help  in  its  development.  Great  work  thrives 


154  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

best  in  a  critical  atmosphere,  and  the  clear 
light  thrown  upon  the  past  is  the  surest  of 
guides  to  the  future.  When  the  standard  of 

O 

criticism  is  high,  when  the  influence  of  classi 
cal  and  foreign  literature  is  understood  and 
appreciated,  when  slovenly  and  ill-digested 
work  is  promptly  recognized  as  such,  then,  and 
then  only,  may  we  look  for  the  full  expansion 
of  a  country's  genius.  To  be  satisfied  with 
less  is  an  amiable  weakness  rather  than  an  in 
vigorating  stimulant  to  perfection. 

Matthew  Arnold's  definition  of  true  criti 
cism  is  familiar  to  all  his  readers ;  it  is  simply 
"  a  disinterested  endeavor  to  learn  and  propa 
gate  the  best  that  is  known  and  thought  in  the 
world."  But  by  disinterestedness  he  did  not 
mean  merely  that  a  critic  must  have  no  dis 
tinct  design  of  flattering  either  his  subject  or 
his  audience.  He  meant  that  in  order  to  rec 
ognize  what  is  really  the  best  a  man  must  free 
himself  from  every  form  of  passion  or  preju 
dice,  from  every  fixed  opinion,  from  every 
practical  consideration.  He  must  not  look  at 
things  from  an  English,  or  a  French,  or  an 
American,  standpoint.  He  has  no  business 
with  politics  or  patriotism.  These  things  are 


CURIOSITIES  OF  CRITICISM.  155 

excellent  in  themselves,  and  may  be  allowed  to 
control  his  actions  in  other  matters ;  but  when 
the  question  at  issue  is  the  abstract  beauty  of 
a  poem,  a  painting,  a  statue,  or  a  piece  of  ar 
chitecture,  he  is  expected  to  stand  apart  from 
his  every-day  self,  and  to  judge  of  it  by  some 
higher  and  universal  law.  This  is  a  difficult 
task  for  most  men,  who  do  not  respire  easily 
in  such  exceedingly  rarefied  air,  and  who  have 
no  especial  taste  for  blotting  out  their  individ 
uality.  With  Macaulay,  for  instance,  political 
considerations  frankly  outweigh  all  others  ;  he 
gives  us  the  good  Whig  and  the  wicked  Tory 
on  every  page,  after  the  fashion  of  Hogarth's 
idle  and  industrious  apprentices.  Mr.  Bage- 
hot,  while  a  far  less  transparent  writer,  man 
ifests  himself  indirectly  in  his  literary  prefer 
ences.  When  we  have  read  his  essay  on 
Shakespeare,  we  feel  pretty  sure  we  know  his 
views  on  universal  suffrage.  Mr.  Andrew 
Lang  has  indeed  objected  vehemently  to  the 
intrusion  of  politics  into  literature,  perhaps 
because  of  a  squeamish  distaste  for  the  harsh 
wranglings  of  the  political  field.  But  Mr. 
Arnold  was  incapable  of  confusing  the  two 
ideas.  His  taste  for  Celtic  poetry  and  his 


156  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

attitude  towards  home  rule  are  both  perfectly 
defined  and  perfectly  isolated  sentiments  ;  just 
as  his  intelligent  admiration  and  merciless  con 
demnation  of  Heinrich  Heine  stand  side  by 
side,  living  witnesses  of  a  mind  that  held  its 
own  balance,  losing  nothing  that  was  good, 
condoning  nothing  that  was  evil,  as  far  re 
moved  from  weak  enthusiasm  on  the  one  hand 
as  from  frightened  depreciation  on  the  other. 

It  is  folly  to  rail  at  the  critic  until  we  have 
learned  his  value  ;  it  is  folly  to  ignore  a  help 
which  we  are  not  too  wise  to  need.  "  The  best 
that  is  known  and  thought  in  the  world  "  does 
not  stand  waiting  for  admission  on  our  door 
steps.  Like  the  happiness  of  Hesiod,  it 
"abides  very  far  hence,  and  the  way  to  it  is 
long  and  steep  and  rough."  It  is  hard  to  seek, 
hard  to  find,  and  not  easily  understood  when 
discovered.  Criticism  does  not  mean  a  ran 
dom  opinion  on  the  last  new  novel,  though 
even  the  most  dismal  of  light  literature  comes 
fairly  within  its  scope.  It  means  a  disinter 
ested  endeavor  to  learn  and  to  teach  whatever 
wisdom  or  beauty  has  been  added  by  every 
age  and  every  nation  to  the  great  inheritance 
of  mankind. 


SOME  ASPECTS  OF  PESSIMISM. 

WHEN  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  delivered  his 
lecture  on  Emerson  in  this  country,  several 
years  ago,  it  was  delightful  to  see  how  the 
settled  melancholy  of  his  audience,  who  had 
come  for  a  panegyric  and  did  not  get  it, 
melted  into  genial  applause  when  the  lecturer 
touched  at  last  upon  the  one  responsive  chord 
which  bound  his  subject,  his  hearers,  and  him 
self  in  a  sympathetic  harmony,  —  I  mean 
Emerson's  lifelong,  persistent,  and  unconquer 
able  optimism.  This  was  perhaps  the  more 
apparent  because  Mr.  Arnold's  addresses  were 
not  precisely  the  kind  with  which  we  Ameri 
cans  are  best  acquainted ;  they  were  singularly 
deficient  in  the  oratorical  flights  that  are  wont 
to  arouse  our  enthusiasm,  and  in  the  sudden 
descents  to  colloquial  anecdote  by  which  we 
expect  to  be  amused.  For  real  enjoyment  it 
was  advisable  to  read  them  over  carefully 
after  they  were  printed,  and  the  oftener  they 


158  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

were  so  read  the  better  they  repaid  perusal ; 
but  this  not  being  the  point  of  view  from 
which  ordinary  humanity  is  apt  to  regard  a 
lecture,  it  was  with  prompt  and  genuine  re 
lief  that  the  audience  hailed  a  personal  appeal 
to  that  cheerful,  healthy  hopefulness  of  dispo 
sition  which  we  like  to  be  told  we  possess  in 
common  with  greater  men.  It  is  always  pleas 
ant  to  hear  that  happiness  is  "  the  due  and 
eternal  result  of  labor,  righteousness,  and  ve 
racity,"  and  to  have  it  hinted  to  us  that  we 
have  sane  and  wholesome  minds  because  we 
think  so;  it  is  pleasanter  still  to  be  assured 
that  the  disparaging  tone  which  religion  as 
sumes  in  relation  to  this  earthly  happiness 
arises  from  a  well-intentioned  desire  to  wean 
us  from  it,  and  not  at  all  from  a  clear-sighted 
conviction  of  its  feeble  worth.  When  Mr. 
Arnold  recited  for  our  benefit  a  cheerless  little 
scrap  of  would-be  pious  verse  which  he  had 
heard  read  in  a  London  schoolroom,  all  about 
the  advantages  of  dying,  — 

"  Fortlie  world  at  best  is  a  dreary  place, 
And  my  life  is  getting  low,"  — 

we  were  glad  to  laugh  over  such  dismal  phi 
losophy,  and  to  feel  within  ourselves  an  exhila 
rating  superiority  of  soul. 


SOME  ASPECTS  OF  PESSIMISM.  159 

But  self -satisfaction,  if  as  buoyant  as  gas, 
has  an  ugly  trick  of  collapsing  when  full 
blown,  and  facts  are  stony  things  that  refuse 
to  melt  away  in  the  sunshine  of  a  smile.  Mr. 
Arnold,  like  Mr.  Emerson,  preached  the  gos 
pel  of  compensation  with  much  picturesque- 
ness  and  beauty  ;  but  his  arguments  would  be 
more  convincing  if  our  own  observation  and 
experience  did  not  so  mulishly  stand  in  their 
way.  A  recent  writer  in  Cornhill,  who  ought 
to  be  editing  a  magazine  for  Arcady,  asserts 
with  charming  simplicity  that  man  "  finds  a 
positive  satisfaction  in  putting  himself  on  a 
level  with  others,  and  in  recognizing  that  he 
has  his  just  share  of  life's  enjoyments."  But 
suppose  that  he  cannot  reach  the  level  of 
others,  or  be  persuaded  that  his  share  is  just  ? 
The  good  things  of  life  are  not  impartially 
divided,  like  the  spaces  on  a  draught-board, 
and  man,  who  is  a  covetous  animal,  will  never 
be  content  with  a  little,  while  his  comrade 
enjoys  a  great  deal.  Neither  does  he  find  the 
solace  that  is  expected  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  unfortunate  who  has  nothing;  for  this 
view  of  the  matter,  besides  being  a  singular 
plea  for  the  compensation  theory,  appeals  too 


160  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

coarsely  to  that  root  of  selfishness  which  we 
are  none  of  us  anxious  to  exhibit.  The  aver 
age  fustian-clad  man  is  not  too  good  to  envy 
his  neighbor's  broadcloth,  but  he  is  too  good  to 
take  comfort  in  his  brother's  nakedness.  The 
sight  of  it  may  quicken  his  gratitude,  but  can 
hardly  increase  his  happiness.  Yet  what  did 
Mr.  Arnold  mean  in  his  poem  of  Consolation 
—  which  is  very  charming,  but  not  in  the  least 
consoling  —  save  that  the  joys  and  sorrows  of 
each  hour  balance  themselves  in  a  just  propor 
tion,  and  that  the  lovers'  raptures  and  the 
blind  robber's  pain  level  the  eternal  scales.  It 
is  not  a  cheering  bit  of  philosophy,  whatever 
might  have  been  the  author's  intention,  for  the 
very  existence  of  suffering  darkens  the  horizon 
for  thoughtful  souls.  It  would  be  an  insult 
on  the  part  of  the  lovers  —  lovers  are  odious 
things  at  best  —  to  offer  their  arrogant  bliss 
as  indemnification  to  the  wretch  for  his  brim 
ming  cup  of  bitterness  ;  but  the  vision  of  his 
seared  eyeballs  and  sin-laden  soul  might  justly 
moderate  their  own  expansive  felicity.  Sor 
row  has  a  claim  on  all  mankind,  and  when  the 
utmost  that  Mr.  Arnold  could  promise  for  our 
consolation  was  that  time,  the  impartial, 


SOME  ASPECTS   OF  PESSIMISM.          161 

' '  Brings  round  to  all  men 
Some  undimm'd  hours." 

we  did  not  feel  that  he  afforded  us  any  broad 
ground  for  self-complacency. 

The  same  key  is  struck  with  more  firmness 
in  that  strange  poem,  The  Sick  King  in 
Bokhara,  where  the  vizier  can  find  no  better 
remedy  for  his  master's  troubled  mind  than  by 
pointing  out  to  him  the  vast  burden  of  misery 
which  rests  upon  the  world,  and  which  he  is 
utterly  powerless  to  avert.  It  is  hardly  worth 
while,  so  runs  the  vizier's  argument,  for  the 
king  to  vex  his  soul  over  the  sufferings  of  one 
poor  criminal,  whom  his  pity  could  not  save, 
when  the  same  tragic  drama  is  being  played 
with  variations  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe. 
Behold,  thousands  are  toiling  for  hard  mas 
ters,  armies  are  laying  waste  the  peaceful  land, 
robbers  are  harassing  the  mountain  shepherds, 
and  little  children  are  being  carried  into  cap 
tivity. 

"  The  Kaffirs  also  (whom  God  curse  !) 
Vex  one  another  night  and  day ; 
There  are  the  lepers,  and  all  sick ; 
There  are  the  poor,  who  faint  away. 


162  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

"  All  these  have  sorrow  and  keep  still, 
Whilst  other  men  make  cheer  and  sing. 
Wilt  thou  have  pity  on  all  these  ? 
No,  nor  on  this  dead  dog,  O  king !  ' ' 

Whereupon  the  sick  monarch,  who  does  not 
seem  greatly  cheered  by  this  category,  adds  in 
a  disconsolate  sort  of  way  that  he  too,  albeit 
envied  of  all  men,  finds  his  secret  burdens 
hard  to  bear,  and  that  not  even  to  him  is 
granted  the  fulfillment  of  desire,  — 
"  And  what  I  would,  I  cannot  do." 
Unless  the  high  priests  of  optimism  shall  find 
us  some  stouter  arguments  than  these  with 
which  to  make  merry  our  souls,  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  their  opponents,  who  have  at  least 
the  knack  of  stating  their  cases  with  pitiless 
lucidity,  will  hardly  think  our  buoyancy  worth 
pricking. 

As  for  that  small  and  compact  band  who 
steadfastly  refuse  to  recognize  in  "  this  sad, 
swift  life "  any  occasion  for  self -congratula 
tion,  they  are  not  so  badly  off,  in  spite  of  their 
funereal  trappings,  as  we  are  commonly  given 
to  suppose.  It  is  only  necessary  to  read  a 
page  of  their  writings  —  and  few  people  care 
to  read  more  —  to  appreciate  how  thoroughly 


SOME  ASPECTS  OF  PESSIMISM.         163 

they  enjoy  the  situation,  and  how,  sitting  with 
Hecate  in  her  cave,  they  weave  delicate 
thoughts  out  of  their  chosen  darkness.  They 
are  full  of  the  hopefulness  of  despair,  and  con 
fident  in  the  strength  of  the  world's  weakness. 
They  assume  that  they  not  only  represent 
great  fundamental  truths,  but  that  these  truths 
are  for  the  first  time  being  put  forth  in  a  con 
crete  shape  for  the  edification  and  adherence 
of  mankind.  Mr.  Edgar  Saltus  informs  us 
that,  while  optimism  is  as  old  as  humanity, 
"  systematic  pessimism "  is  but  a  growth  of 
the  last  half  century,  before  which  transition 
period  we  can  find  only  individual  expressions 
of  discontent.  Mr.  Mallock  claims  that  he  is 
the  first  who  has  ever  inquired  into  the  worth 
of  life  "  in  the  true  scientific  spirit."  But 
when  we  come  to  ask  in  what  systematic  or 
scientific  pessimism  differs  from  the  older 
variety  which  has  found  a  home  in  the  hearts 
of  men  from  the  beginning,  we  do  not  receive 
any  very  coherent  answer.  From  Mr.  Mal 
lock,  indeed,  we  hardly  expect  any.  It  is  his 
province  in  literature  to  propose  problems 
which  the  reader,  after  the  fashion  of  The 
Lady  or  the  Tiger  ?  is  permitted  to  solve  for 


164  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

himself.  But  does  Mr.  Saltus  really  suppose 
that  Schopenhauer  and  Hartmann  have  made 
much  headway  in  reducing  sadness  to  a  sci 
ence,  that  love  is  in  any  danger  of  being  sup 
planted  by  the  "  genius  of  the  species,"  or  that 
the  "  principle  of  the  unconscious "  is  at  all 
likely  to  extinguish  our  controlling  force? 
What  have  these  two  subtle  thinkers  said  to 
the  world  that  the  world  has  not  practically 
known  and  felt  for  thousands  of  years  already  ? 
Hegesias,  three  centuries  before  Christ,  was 
quite  as  systematic  as  Schopenhauer,  and  his 
system  begot  more  definite  results ;  for  several 
of  his  disciples  hanged  themselves  out  of  defer-  _ 
ence  for  his  teachings,  whereas  it  may  be  seri 
ously  doubted  whether  all  the  persuasive  argu 
ments  of  the  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vorstellung 
have  ever  made  or  are  likely  to  make  a  single 
celibate.  Marcus  Aurelius  was  as  logically 
convinced  of  the  inherent  worthlessness  of  life 
as  Dr.  Hartmann,  and,  without  any  scientific 
apparatus  whatever,  he  stamped  his  views  on 
the  face  of  a  whole  nation.  We  are  now 
anxiously  warned  by  Mr.  Saltus  not  to  con 
found  scientific  pessimism  with  that  accidental 
melancholy  which  is  the  result  of  our  own  per- 


SOME  ASPECTS  OF  PESSIMISM.   165 

sonal  misfortunes ;  but  Leopardi,  whose  unut 
terable  despair  arose  solely  from  his  personal 
misfortunes,  or  rather  from  his  moral  inability 
to  cope  with  them,  —  for  Joubert,  who  suffered 
as  much,  has  left  a  trail  of  heavenly  light  upon 
his  path,  —  Leopardi  alone  lays  bare  for  us  the 

"  Tears  that  spring  and  increase 
In  the  barren  places  of  mirth," 

with  an  appalling  accuracy  from  which  we  are 
glad  to  turn  away  our  shocked  and  troubled 
eyes. 

It  is  a  humiliating  fact  that,  notwithstand 
ing  our  avaricious  greed  for  novelties,  we  are 
forced,  when  sincere,  to  confess  that  "  les 
anciens  ont  tout  dit"  and  that  it  is  probable 
the  contending  schools  of  thought  have  always 
held  the  same  relative  positions  they  do  now : 
optimism  glittering  in  the  front  ranks  as  a 
deservedly  popular  favorite  ;  pessimism  speak 
ing  with  a  still,  persistent  voice  to  those  who, 
unluckily  for  themselves,  have  the  leisure  and 
the  intelligence  to  attend.  Schopenhauer 
hated  the  Jews  with  all  his  heart  for  being 
such  stubborn  optimists,  and  it  is  true  that 
their  records  bear  ample  witness  to  the  strong 
hold  they  took  on  the  pleasures  and  the  profits 


166  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

of  the  world.  But  their  noblest  and  clearest 
voices,  Isaias,  Jeremias,  Ezekiel,  speak  a  dif 
ferent  language ;  and  Solomon,  who,  it  must 
be  granted,  enjoyed  a  wider  experience  than 
most  men,  renders  a  cheerless  verdict  of  vanity 
and  vexation  of  spirit  for  "  all  things  that  are 
done  under  the  sun."  The  Egyptians,  owing 
chiefly  to  their  tender  solicitude  about  their 
tombs,  have  taken  rank  in  history  as  a  people 
enamoured  rather  of  death  than  of  life ;  and 
from  the  misty  flower-gardens  of  Buddha  have 
been  gathered  for  centuries  the  hemlock  and 
nightshade  that  adorn  the  funeral-wreaths  of 
literature. 

But  the  Greeks,  the  blithe  and  jocund 
Greeks,  who,  as  Mr.  Arnold  justly  observed, 
ought  never  to  have  been  either  sick  or  sorry, 
—  to  them,  at  least,  we  can  turn  for  that 
wholesome  joy,  that  rational  delight  in  mere 
existence,  which  we  have  somehow  let  slip 
from  our  nerveless  grasp.  Whether  it  was 
because  this  world  gave  him  so  much,  such 
rare  perfection  in  all  material  things,  or  be 
cause  his  own  conception  of  the  world  to  come 
promised  him  so  exceedingly  little,  —  for  one 
or  both  of  these  reasons,  the  average  Greek 


SOME  ASPECTS   OF  PESSIMISM.      167 

preferred  to  cling  tenaciously  to  the  good  he 
had,  to  the  hills,  and  the  sea,  and  the  sunshine, 
rather  than  to 

"Move  among  shadows,  a  shadow,  and  wail  by  impassahle 
streams ; ' ' 

and  his  choice,  under  the  circumstances,  is 
perhaps  hardly  a  matter  for  amazement.  That 
a  people  so  richly  endowed  should  be  in  love 
with  life  seems  to  us  right  and  natural ;  that 
amid  their  keen  realization  of  its  fullness  and 
beauty  we  find  forever  sounded  —  and  not 
always  in  a  minor  key  —  the  same  old  notes 
of  weariness  and  pain  is  a  discouraging  item, 
when  we  would  like  to  build  up  an  exhaustive 
theory  of  happiness.  Far,  far  back,  in  the 
Arcadian  days  of  Grecian  piety  and  simplicity, 
the  devout  agriculturist  Hesiod  looked  sorrow 
fully  over  the  golden  fields,  searching  vainly 
for  a  joy  that  remained  ever  out  of  reach. 
Homer,  in  a  passage  which  Mr.  Peacock  says 
is  nearly  always  incorrectly  translated,  has 
given  us  a  summary  of  life  which  would  not 
put  a  modern  German  to  the  blush  : — 

"  Jove,  from  his  urns  dispensing  good  and  ill, 
Gives  ill  unmixed  to  some,  and  good  and  ill 
Mingled  to  many,  good  unmixed  to  none." 


168  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

Sophocles  says  uncompromisingly  that  man's 
happiest  fate  is  not  to  be  born  at  all;  and 
that,  failing  this  good  fortune,  the  next  best 
thing  is  to  die  as  quickly  as  possible.  Menan- 
der  expresses  the  same  thought  more  sweet- 

iy:- 

"  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young ;  " 

and  Euripides,  the  most  reverent  soul  ever 
saddened  by  the  barrenness  of  paganism, 
forces  into  one  bitter  line  all  the  bleak  hope 
lessness  of  which  the  Greek  tragedy  alone  is 
capable :  — 

"  Life  is  called  life,  but  it  is  truly  pain." 

Even  as  isolated  sentiments,  these  ever-recur 
ring  reflections  diminish  perceptibly  the  sum 
of  a  nation's  gayety,  and,  if  we  receive  the 
drama  as  the  mouthpiece  of  the  people,  we  are 
inclined  to  wonder  now  and  then  how  they 
ever  could  have  been  cheerful  at  all.  It  is 
easy,  on  the  other  hand,  to  point  to  Admetos 
and  Antigone  as  two  standing  examples  of  the 
great  value  the  Greeks  placed  upon  life ;  for 
the  sacrifice  of  Alkestis  was  not  in  their  eyes 
the  sordid  bargain  it  appears  in  ours,  and  the 
daughter  of  (Edipus  goes  to  her  death  with  a 


SOME  .ASPECTS   OF  PESSIMISM.        169 

shrinking  reluctance  seemingly  out  of  keeping 
with  her  heroic  mould.  But  Admetos,  excuse 
him  as  we  may,  is  but  a  refinement  of  a  com 
mon  type,  old  as  mankind,  and  no  great  credit 
to  its  ranks.  He  may  be  found  in  every  page 
of  the  world's  history,  from  the  siege  of  Jeru 
salem  to  the  siege  of  Paris.  A  Kempis  has 
transfixed  him  with  sharp  scorn  in  his  chapter 
On  the  Consideration  of  Human  Misery,  and 
a  burning  theatre  or  a  sinking  ship  betray 
him,  shorn  of  poetical  disguise,  in  all  his  un 
adorned  brutality.  But  to  find  fault  with 
Antigone,  the  noblest  figure  in  classical  litera 
ture,  because  she  manifests  a  natural  dislike 
for  being  buried  alive  is  to  carry  our  ideal 
of  heroism  a  little  beyond  reason.  Flesh  and 
blood  shrink  from  the  sickening  horror  that 
lays  its  cold  hand  upon  her  heart.  She  is 
young,  beautiful,  and  beloved,  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  matrimony,  and  clinging  with 
womanly  tenderness  to  the  sacred  joys  that 
are  never  to  be  hers.  She  is  a  martyr  in  a 
just  cause,  but  without  one  ray  of  that  divine 
ecstasy  that  sent  Christian  maidens  smiling  to 
the  lions.  Beyond  a  chilly  hope  that  she  will 
not  be  unwelcome  to  her  parents,  or  to  the 


170  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

brother  she  has  vainly  striven  to  save  from 
desecration,  Antigone  descends 

"  Into  the  dreary  mansions  of  the  dead," 

uncheered  by  any  throb  of  expectation.  Fi 
nally,  the  manner  of  her  death  is  too  appalling 
to  be  met  with  stoicism.  Juliet,  the  bravest 
of  Shakespeare's  heroines,  quails  before  the 
thought  of  a  few  unconscious  hours  spent  in 
the  darkness  of  the  tomb ;  and  if  our  more 
exalted  views  demand  indifference  to  such  a 
fate,  we  must  not  look  to  the  Greeks,  nor  to 
him  who 

"  Saw  life  steadily,  and  saw  it  whole," 

for  the  fulfillment  of  our  idle  fancy. 

Youth,  health,  beauty,  and  virtue  were  to 
the  ancient  mind  the  natural  requisites  for 
happiness ;  yet  even  these  favors  were  so 
far  at  best  from  securing  it,  that  "  nature's 
most  pleasing  invention,  early  death,"  was  too 
often  esteemed  the  rarest  gift  of  all.  When 
Schopenhauer  says  of  the  fourth  command 
ment,  " '  Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother, 
that  thy  days  may  be  long  in  the  land,'  —  ah ! 
what  a  misfortune  to  hold  out  as  a  reward  for 
duty !  "  we  feel  both  shocked  and  repulsed  by 


SOME  ASPECTS   OF  PESSIMISM.        171 

this  deliberate  rejection  of  what  is  offered  us 
as  a  blessing ;  but  it  is  at  least  curious  to  note 
that  the  happy  Greeks  held  much  the  same 
opinion.  When  the  sons  of  Cydippe  —  those 
models  of  filial  devotion  —  shamed  not  to  yoke 
themselves  like  oxen  to  the  cart,  and  with 
strong  young  arms  to  drag  their  mother  to  the 
feast  of  Hera,  the  ancient  priestess  begged  of 
the  dread  goddess  that  she  would  grant  them 
her  best  gift ;  and  the  prayer  was  answered, 
not  with  length  of  days,  nor  with  the  regal 
power  and  splendor  promised  of  old  to  Paris, 
but  with  a  boon  more  precious  still  than  all. 

' '  Whereat  the  statue  from  its  jeweled  eyes 
Lightened,  and  thunder  ran  from  cloud  to  cloud 
In  heaven,  and  the  vast  company  was  hushed. 
But  when  they  sought  for  Cleobis,  behold, 
He  lay  there  still,  and  by  his  brother's  side 
Lay  Biton,  smiling  through  ambrosial  curls, 
And  when  the  people  touched  them  they  were  dead. "  * 

It  is  hard  to  assert  in  the  face  of  a  narra 
tive  like  this  that  the  Greeks  valued  nothing 
as  much  as  the  mere  delight  of  existence. 

As  for  the  favorite  theory  that  Christianity 
is  responsible  for  the  weakening  of  earthly 
happiness,  and  that  her  ministers  have  system- 

1  The  Sons  of  Cydippe,  by  Edmund  Gosse. 


172  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

atically  disparaged  the  things  of  this  world  in 
order  to  quicken  our  desire  for  things  eternal, 
it  might  suffice  to  hint  that  Christianity  is  a 
large  word,  and  represents  at  present  a  great 
many  different  phases  of  thought.  Mr.  Ar 
nold  objected,  rationally  enough,  to  the  lugu 
brious  hymns  from  which  the  English  middle 
classes  are  wont  to  draw  their  spiritual  refresh 
ment  ;  and  Dr.  Holmes,  it  will  be  remem 
bered,  has  spoken  quite  as  strongly  in  regard  to 
their  depressing  influence  upon  New  England 
households.  But  Christianity  and  the  modern 
hymn-book  are  by  no  means  synonymous 
terms,  and  to  claim  that  the  early  church  de 
liberately  lowered  the  scale  of  human  joy  is 
a  very  different  and  a  very  grave  charge,  and 
one  which  Mr.  Pater,  in  Marius  the  Epicu 
rean,  has  striven  valiantly  to  refute.  With 
what  clear  and  delicate  touches  he  paints  for 
us  the  innocent  gayety  of  that  new  birth,  —  a 
gayety  with  no  dark  background,  and  no  heart 
breaking  limits  of  time  and  space.  Compared 
to  it,  the  sombre  and  multitudinous  rites  of 
the  Romans  and  the  far-famed  blitheness  of 
the  Greeks  seem  incurably  narrow  and  insipid. 
The  Christians  of  the  catacombs  were  essen- 


SOME  ASPECTS  OF  PESSIMISM.        173 

tially  a  cheerful  body,  having  for  their  favorite 
emblem  the  serene  image  of  the  Good  Shep 
herd,  and  believing  firmly  that  "  grief  is  the 
sister  of  doubt  and  ill-temper,  and  beyond  all 
spirits  destroyeth  man."  If  in  the  Middle 
Ages  the  Church  apparently  darkened  earth  to 
brighten  heaven,  it  was  simply  because  she 
took  life  as  she  found  it,  and  strove,  as  she 
still  strives,  to  teach  the  only  doctrine  of  com 
pensation  that  the  tyranny  of  facts  cannot 
cheaply  overthrow.  The  medieval  peasant 
may  have  been  less  badly  off,  on  the  whole, 
than  we  are  generally  pleased  to  suppose.  He 
was,  from  all  accounts,  a  robust,  unreasoning 
creature,  who  held  his  neck  at  the  mercy  of 
his  feudal  lord,  and  the  rest  of  his  scanty 
possessions  at  the  discretion  of  the  tax-gath 
erer  ;  but  who  had  not  yet  bared  his  back  to 
the  intolerable  sting  of  that  modern  gadfly, 
the  professional  agitator,  and  socialistic  cham 
pion  of  the  poor.  Yet  even  without  this  last 
and  sorest  infliction,  it  is  probable  that  life 
was  to  him  but  little  worth  the  living,  and  that 
religion  could  not  well  paint  the  world  much 
blacker  than  he  found  it.  There  was  scant 
need,  in  his  case,  for  disparaging  the  pleasures 


174  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

of  the  flesn ;  and  hope,  lingering  alone  in  his 
Pandora  box  of  troubles,  saved  him  from  utter 
annihilation  by  pointing  steadily  beyond  the 
doors  of  death. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  abstract  question  of 
whether  our  present  existence  be  enjoyable  or 
otherwise  is  one  which  creeds  do  not  materi 
ally  modify.  A  pessimist  may  be  deeply  re 
ligious  like  Pascal  and  Chateaubriand,  or  ut 
terly  skeptical  like  Schopenhauer  and  Hart- 
mann,  or  purely  philosophical  like  faint 
hearted  Amiel.  He  may  agree  with  Lamen- 
nais,  that  "  man  is  the  most  suffering  of  all 
creatures ;  "  or  with  Voltaire,  that  "  happi 
ness  is  a  dream,  and  pain  alone  is  real."  He 
may  listen  to  Saint  Theresa,  "  It  is  given  to 
us  either  to  die  or  to  suffer  ;  "  or  to  Leopardi, 
"  Life  is  fit  only  to  be  despised."  He  may 
read  in  the  diary  of  that  devout  recluse,  Eu- 
ge*nie  de  Gue"rin  that  "  dejection  is  the  ground 
work  of  human  life  ;  "  or  he  may  turn  over 
the  pages  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  and  see  how 
a  typical  man  of  the  world,  soldier,  courtier, 
and  navigator,  can  find  no  words  ardent 
enough  in  which  to  praise  "  the  workmanship 
of  death,  that  finishes  the  sorrowful  business 


SOME  ASPECTS  OF  PESSIMISM.         175 

of  a  wretched  life."  I  do  not  mean  to  imply 
that  Leopardi  and  Euge'nie  de  Gue'rin  re 
garded  existence  from  the  same  point  of  view, 
or  found  the  same  solace  for  their  pain  ;  but 
that  they  both  struck  the  keynote  of  pessimis 
tic  philosophy  by  recognizing  that,  in  this 
world  at  least,  sorrow  outbalances  joy,  and 
that  it  is  given  to  all  men  to  eat  their  bread 
in  tears.  On  the  other  hand,  if  we  are  disin 
clined  to  take  this  view,  we  shall  find  no  lack 
of  guides,  both  saints  and  sinners,  ready  to 
look  the  Sphinx  smilingly  in  the  face,  and 
puzzle  out  a  different  answer  to  her  riddle. 

Another  curious  notion  is  that  poets  have  a 
prescriptive  right  to  pessimism,  and  should 
feel  themselves  more  or  less  obliged,  in  virtue 
of  their  craft,  to  take  upon  their  shoulders  the 
weight  of  suffering  humanity.  Mr.  James 
Sully,  for  instance,  whose  word,  as  a  student 
of  these  matters,  cannot  be  disregarded, 
thinks  it  natural  and  almost  inevitable  that  a 
true  poet  should  be  of  a  melancholy  cast,  by 
reason  of  the  sensitiveness  of  his  moral  nature 
and  his  exalted  sympathy  for  pain.  But  it 
has  yet  to  be  proved  that  poets  are  a  more 
compassionate  race  than  their  obscurer  breth- 


176  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

ren  who  sit  in  counting-houses  or  brew  beer. 
They  are  readier,  indeed,  to  moralize  over  the 
knife-grinder,  but  quite  as  slow  to  tip  him  the 
coveted  sixpence.  Shelley,  whose  soul  swelled 
at  the  wrongs  of  all  mankind,  did  not  hesitate 
to  inflict  pain  on  the  one  human  being  whom 
it  was  his  obvious  duty  to  protect.  But  then 
Shelley,  like  Carlyle,  belonged  to  the  category 
of  reformers  rather  than  to  the  pessimists; 
believing  that  though  the  world  as  he  saw  it 
was  as  bad  as  possible,  things  could  be  easily 
mended  by  simply  turning  them  topsy-turvy 
under  his  direction.  Now  the  pessimist  proper 
is  the  most  modest  of  men.  He  does  not  flat 
ter  himself  for  a  moment  that  he  can  alter  the 
existing  state  of  evil,  or  that  the  human  race, 
by  its  combined  efforts,  can  do  anything  better 
than  simply  cease  to  live.  He  may  entertain 
with  Novalis  a  shadowy  hope  that  when  man 
kind,  wearied  of  its  own  impotence,  shall  ef 
face  itself  from  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  a  bet 
ter  and  happier  species  shall  fill  the  vacant 
land.  Or  he  may  believe  with  Hartmann  that 
there  is  even  less  felicity  possible  in  the  com 
ing  centuries  than  in  the  present  day ;  that 
humanity  is  already  on  the  wane ;  that  the 


SOME  ASPECTS   OF  PESSIMISM.          177 

higher  we  stand  in  the  physical  and  intellect 
ual  scale  the  more  inevitable  becomes  our  suf 
fering  ;  and  that  when  men  shall  have  thrown 
aside  the  last  illusion  of  their  youth,  namely, 
the  hope  of  any  obtainable  good  either  in  this 
world  or  in  another,  they  will  then  no  longer 
consent  to  bear  the  burden  of  life,  but,  by  the 
supreme  force  of  their  united  volition,  will 
overcome  the  resistance  of  nature,  and  achieve 
the  destruction  of  the  universe.  But  under 
no  circumstances  does  he  presume  to  imagine 
that  he,  a  mere  unit  of  pain,  can  in  any  degree 
change  or  soften  the  remorseless  words  of 
fate. 

To  return  to  the  poets,  however,  it  is  edify 
ing  to  hear  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  assert  that 
"  nothing  is  less  poetical  than  optimism,"  or  to 
listen  to  Mr.  John  Addington  Symonds,  who, 
scanning  the  thoughtful  soul  for  a  solution  of 
man's  place  in  the  order  of  creation,  can  find 
for  him  no  more  joyous  task  than,  Prome 
theus-like, 

"  To  dree  life's  doom  on  Caucasus." 

• 

Even  when  a  poem  appears  to  the  uninitiated 
to  be  of  a  cheerful,  not  to  say  blithesome  cast, 


178  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

the  critics  are  busy  reading  unutterable  sad 
ness  between  the  lines  ;  and  while  we  smile  at 
Puck,  and  the  fairies,  and  the  sweet  Titania 
nursing  her  uncouth  love,  we  must  remember 
that  the  learned  Dr.  Ulrici  has  pronounced 
the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  to  be  a  serious 
homily,  preached  with  grave  heart  to  an  un 
thinking  world.  But  is  Robin  Goodfellow 
really  a  missionary  in  disguise,  and  are  the 
poets  as  pessimistic  in  their  teaching  as  their 
interpreters  would  have  us  understand  ?  Heine 
undoubtedly  was,  and  Byron  pretended  to  be. 
Keats,  with  all  the  pathos  of  his  shadowed 
young  life,  was  nothing  of  the  sort,  nor  was 
Milton,  nor  Goethe,  nor  Wordsworth;  while 
Scott,  lost,  apparently,  to  the  decent  require 
ments  of  his  art,  confessed  unblushingly  that 
fortune  could  not  long  play  a  dirge  upon  his 
buoyant  spirits.  And  Shakespeare?  Why, 
he  was  all  and  everything.  Day  and  night, 
sunlight  and  starlight,  were  embraced  in  his 
affluent  nature.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the 
quivering  pulses  of  the  world,  and,  recogniz 
ing  that  life  was  often  in  itself  both  pleasant 
and  good,  he  yet  knew,  and  knew  it  without 
pain,  that  death  was  better  still.  Look  only 


SOME  ASPECTS   OF  PESSIMISM.          179 

at  the  character  of  Horatio,  the  very  type  of 
the  blithe,  sturdy,  and  somewhat  commonplace 
young  student,  to  whom  enjoyment  seems  a 
birthright,  — 

"  A  man  that  fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 
Hast  ta'en  with  equal  thanks." 

Yet  it  is  to  this  man,  of  all  others,  that  the 
dying  Hamlet  utters  the  pathetic  plea, — 

"  If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain 
To  tell  my  story." 

Here  at  last  is  a  ray  of  real  light,  guiding 
us  miles  away  from  the  murky  paths  of  mod 
ern  French  and  English  poetry,  where  we  have 
stumbled  along,  growing  despondent  in  the 
gloom.  To  brave  life  cheerfully,  to  welcome 
death  gladly,  are  possible  things,  after  all,  and 
better  worth  man's  courage  and  convictions 
than  to  dree  on  Caucasus  forever. 

It  is  ludicrous  to  turn  from  the  poets  to  the 
politicians,  but  nowadays  every  question,  even 
the  old  unanswered  one,  "Is  life  worth  liv 
ing?  "  must  needs  be  viewed  from  its  political 
standpoint.  What  can  be  more  delightful 
than  to  hear  Mr.  Courthope  assert  that  op- 


180  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

timism  is  the  note  of  the  Liberal  party,  while 
the  Conservatives  are  necessarily  pessimistic? 
—  especially  when  one  remembers  the  genial 
utterance  of  Mr.  Walter  Bagehot,  contending 
that  the  very  essence  of  Toryism  is  enjoyment. 
"  The  way  to  be  satisfied  with  existing  things 
is  to  enjoy  them."  Yet  Sir  Francis  Doyle 
bears  witness  in  his  memoirs  that  the  stoutest 
of  Tories  can  find  plenty  to  grumble  at,  which 
is  not  altogether  surprising  in  a  sadly  ill-regu 
lated  world ;  and  while  the  optimistic  Liberal 
fondly  believes  that  he  is  marching  straight 
along  the  chosen  road  to  the  gilded  towers  of 
El  Dorado,  the  less  sanguine  Conservative 
contents  himself  with  trying,  after  his  dull, 
practical  fashion,  to  step  clear  of  some  of  the 
ruts  and  quagmires  by  the  way.  As  for  the 
extreme  Radicals,  —  and  every  nation  has  its 
full  share  of  these  gentry,  —  their  optimism  is 
too  glittering  for  sober  eyes  to  bear.  A  clas 
sical  tradition  says  that  each  time  Sisyphos 
rolls  his  mighty  stone  up  the  steep  mountain 
side  he  believes  that  it  will  reach  the  summit ; 
and,  its  ever-repeated  falls  failing  to  teach  him 
any  surer  lesson,  his  doom,  like  that  of  our 
reforming  brothers,  is  softened  into  eternal 


SOME  ASPECTS  OF  PESSIMISM.          181 

hope.  But  it  may  at  least  be  questioned 
whether  the  other  inhabitants  of  Tartarus  — 
none  of  whom,  it  will  be  remembered,  are 
without  their  private  grievances  —  do  not  oc 
casionally  weary  of  the  dust  and  racket,  and 
of  tbe  great  ball  forever  thundering  about 
their  ears,  as  it  rolls  impotently  down  to  the 
level  whence  it  came. 

The  pessimist,  however,  —  be  it  recorded  to 
his  credit,  —  is  seldom  an  agitating  individual. 
His  creed  breeds  indifference  to  others,  and  he 
does  not  trouble  himself  to  thrust  his  views 
upon  the  unconvinced.  We  have,  indeed,  an 
anecdote  of  Dr.  Johnson,  who  broadly  as 
serted  upon  one  occasion  that  no  one  could 
well  be  happy  in  this  world,  whereupon  an  un 
reasonable  old  lady  had  the  bad  taste  to  con 
tradict  him,  and  to  insist  that  she,  for  one, 
was  happy,  and  knew  it.  "  Madam,"  replied 
the  irate  philosopher,  "  it  is  impossible.  You 
are  old,  you  are  ugly,  you  are  sickly  and  poor. 
How,  then,  can  you  be  happy  ?  "  But  this, 
we  think,  was  rather  a  natural  burst  of  indig 
nation  on  the  good  doctor's  part  than  a  dis 
tinct  attempt  at  proselytizing,  though  it  is 
likely  that  he  somewhat  damped  the  boasted 


182  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

felicity  of  his  antagonist.  Schopenhauer,  the 
great  apostle  of  pessimism,  while  willing 
enough  to  make  converts  on  a  grand  scale, 
was  scornfully  unconcerned  about  the  every 
day  opinions  of  his  every -day  —  I  was  going 
to  say  associates,  but  the  fact  is  that  Schopen 
hauer  was  never  guilty  of  really  associating 
with  anybody.  He  had  at  all  times  the  cour 
age  of  his  convictions,  and  delighted  in  illus 
trating  his  least  attractive  theories.  Teaching- 
asceticism,  he  avoided  women  ;  despising  hu 
man  companionship,  he  isolated  himself  from 
men.  A  luminous  selfishness  guided  him 
through  life,  and  saved  him  from  an  incredible 
number  of  discomforts.  It  was  his  rule  to 
expect  nothing,  to  desire  as  little  as  possible, 
and  to  learn  all  he  could.  Want,  he  held  to 
be  the  scourge  of  the  poor,  as  ennui  is  that  of 
the  rich ;  accordingly,  he  avoided  the  one  by 
looking  sharply  after  his  money,  and  the  other 
by  working  with  unremitting  industry.  Pleas 
ure,  he  insisted,  was  but  a  purely  negative 
quality,  a  mere  absence  from  pain.  He  smiled 
at  the  sweet,  hot  delusions  of  youth,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  over  the  limitless  fol 
lies  of  manhood,  regarding  both  from  the 


SOME  ASPECTS   OF  PESSIMISM.          183 

standpoint  of  a  wholly  disinterested  observer. 
If  the  test  of  happiness  in  the  Arabian  para 
dise  be  to  hear  the  measured  beating  of  one's 
own  heart,  Schopenhauer  was  certainly  quali 
fied  for  admission.  Even  in  this  world  he 
was  so  far  from  being  miserable,  that  an  at 
mosphere  o£  snug  comfort  surrounds  the  man 
whose  very  name  has  become  a  synonym  for 
melancholy ;  and  to  turn  from  his  cold  and 
witty  epigrams  to  the  smothered  despair  that 
burdens  Leopardi's  pages  is  like  stepping  at 
once  from  a  pallid,  sunless  afternoon  into  the 
heart  of  midnight.  It  is  always  a  pleasant 
task  for  optimists  to  dwell  as  much  as  possible 
on  the  buoyancy  with  which  every  healthy 
man  regards  his  unknown  future,  and  on  the 
natural  pleasure  he  takes  in  recalling  the 
brightness  of  the  past ;  but  Leopardi,  playing 
the  trump  card  of  pessimism,  demonstrates 
with  merciless  precision  the  insufficiency  of 
such  relief.  We  cannot  in  reason  expect,  he 
argues,  that,  with  youth  behind  us  and  old 
age  in  front,  our  future  will  be  any  improve 
ment  on  our  past,  for  with  increasing  years 
come  increasing  sorrows  to  all  men ;  and  as 
for  the  boasted  happiness  of  that  past,  which 


184  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

of  us  would  live  it  over  again  for  the  sake  of 
the  joys  it  contained  ?  Memory  cheats  us  no 
less  than  hope  by  hazing  over  those  things 
that  we  would  fain  forget ;  but  who  that  has 
plodded  on  to  middle  age  would  take  back 
upon  his  shoulders  ten  of  the  vanished  years, 
with  their  mingled  pleasures  and  pains  ?  Who 
would  return  to  the  youth  he  is  forever  pre 
tending  to  regret  ? 

Such  thoughts  are  not  cheerful  companions ; 
but  if  they  stand  the  test  of  application,  it  is 
useless  to  call  them  morbid.  The  pessimist 
does  not  contend  that  there  is  no  happiness  in 
life,  but  that,  for  the  generality  of  mankind,  it 
is  outbalanced  by  trouble ;  and  this  flinty  as 
surance  is  all  he  has  to  offer  in  place  of  the  fas 
cinating  theory  of  compensation.  It  would 
seem  as  though  no  sane  man  could  hesitate 
between  them,  if  he  had  the  choice,  for  one 
pleasant  delusion  is  worth  a  hundred  disagree 
able  facts  ;  but  in  this  serious  and  truth-hunt 
ing  age  people  have  forgotten  the  value  of  fic 
tion,  and,  like  sulky  children,  refuse  to  play 
at  anything.  Certainly  it  would  be  hard  to 
find  a  more  dispiriting  literature  than  we  en 
joy  at  present.  Scientists,  indeed,  are  reported 


SOME  ASPECTS    OF  PLSSIMISM.          185 

by  those  who  have  the  strength  of  inind  to  fol 
low  them  as  being  exceedingly  merry  and 
complacent ;  but  the  less  ponderous  illumi- 
nati,  to  whom  feebler  souls  turn  instinctively 
for  guidance,  are  shining  just  now  with  a  se 
vere  and  chastened  light.  When  on  pleasure 
bent  they  are  as  frugal  as  Mrs.  Gilpin,  but 
they  sup  sorrow  with  a  long  spoon,  utterly  re 
gardless  of  their  own  or  their  readers'  diges 
tions.  Germany  still  rings  with  Heine's  dis 
cordant  laughter,  and  France,  rich  in  the 
poets  of  decadence,  offers  us  Les  Fleurs  du 
Mai  to  wear  upon  our  bosoms.  England 
listens,  sighing,  while  Carlyle's  denunciations 
linger  like  muttering  thunder  in  the  air;  or 
while  Mr.  Ruskin,  "  the  most  inspired  of  the 
modern  prophets,"  vindicates  his  oracular 
spirit  by  crying, 

"  Woe  !  woe !  O  earth !  Apollo,  O  Apollo !  " 

with  the  monotonous  persistency  of  Cassandra. 
Mr.  Mallock,  proud  to  kneel  at  Mr.  Ruskin's 
feet  as  "  an  intellectual  debtor  to  a  public 
teacher,"  binds  us  in  his  turn  within  the  fine 
meshes  of  his  exhaustless  subtleties,  until  we 
grow  light-headed  rather  than  light-hearted 


186  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

under  such  depressing  manipulation.  Mr. 
Pater,  who  at  one  time  gave  us  to  understand 
that  he  would  teach  us  how  to  enjoy  life,  has, 
so  far,  revealed  nothing  but  its  everlasting  sad 
ness.  If  the  old  Cyrenaics  were  no  gayer  than 
their  modern  representatives,  Aristippus  of 
Cyrene  might  just  as  well  have  been  Diogenes 
sulking  in  his  tub,  or  Heraclitus  adding  use 
less  tears  to  the  trickling  moisture  of  his  cave. 
Even  our  fiction  has  grown  disconcertingly 
sad  within  the  last  few  years,  and  with  a  new 
order  of  sadness,  invented  apparently  to  keep 
pace  with  the  melancholy  march  of  mind.  The 
novelist  of  the  past  had  but  two  courses  open 
to  him :  either  to  leave  Edwin  and  Angelina 
clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  or  to  provide  for 
one  of  them  a  picturesque  and  daisy-strewn 
grave.  Ordinarily  he  chose  the  former  alter 
native,  as  being  less  harassing  to  himself,  and 
more  gratifying  to  his  readers.  Books  that 
end  badly  have  seldom  been  really  popular, 
though  sometimes  a  tragic  conclusion  is  essen 
tial  to  the  artistic  development  of  the  story. 
When  Tom  and  Maggie  Tulliver  go  down, 
hand  in  hand,  amid  the  rushing  waters  of  the 
Floss,  we  feel,  even  through  our  tears,  —  and 


SOME  ASPECTS  OF  PESSIMISM.         187 

mine  are  fresh  each  time  I  read  the  page,  — 
that  the  one  possible  solution  of  the  problem, 
has  been  reached;  that  only  thus  could  the 
widely  contrasting  natures  of  brother  and  sis 
ter  meet  in  unison,  and  the  hard-fought  battle 
be  gained.  Such  an  end  is  not  sad,  it  is  happy 
and  beautiful ;  and,  moreover,  it  is  in  a  mea 
sure  inevitable,  the  climax  being  shadowed 
from  the  beginning,  as  in  the  tragedy  of  the 
Greeks,  and  the  whole  tale  moving  swiftly  and 
surely  to  its  appointed  close.  If  we  compare 
a  finely  chiseled  piece  of  work  like  this  with 
the  flat,  faintly  colored  sketches  which  are  at 
present  passing  muster  for  novels,  we  feel  that 
beauty  of  form  is  something  not  compounded 
of  earthly  materials  only,  and  that  neither  the 
savage  strength  of  French  and  Russian  real 
ism,  nor  the  dreary  monotony  of  German  spec 
ulative  fiction,  can  lift  us  any  nearer  the  tran 
quil  realms  of  art. 

Nor  can  we  even  claim  that  we  have  gained 
in  cheerfulness  what  we  have  lost  in  sym 
metry,  for  the  latest  device  of  the  pessimistic 
story-writer  is  to  marry  his  pair  of  lovers,  and 
then  coldly  inform  its  that,  owing  to  the  inevi 
table  evils  of  life,  they  were  not  particularly 


188  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

happy  after  all.  Now  Lady  Martin  (Helen 
Faucit),  that  loving  student  and  impersonator 
of  Shakespeare's  heroines,  has  expressed  her 
melancholy  conviction  that  the  gentle  Hero 
was  but  ill-mated  with  one  so  fretful  and 
paltry-souled  as  Claudio ;  and  that  Imogen 
the  fair  was  doomed  to  an  early  death,  the 
bitter  fruit  of  her  sad  pilgrimage  to  Milford- 
Haven.  But  be  this  as  it  may,  —  and  we 
more  than  fear  that  Lady  Martin  is  rightly 
acquainted  with  the  matter,  —  Shakespeare 
himself  has  whispered  us  no  word  of  such  ill- 
tidings,  but  has  left  us  free,  an'  it  please  us, 
to  dream  out  happier  things.  So,  too,  Doro 
thea  Brooke,  wedded  to  Will  Ladislaw,  has  be 
fore  her  many  long  and  weary  hours  of  regret 
ful  self-communings ;  yet,  while  we  sigh  over 
her  doubtful  future,  we  are  glad,  nevertheless, 
to  take  our  last  look  at  her  smiling  in  her  hus 
band's  arms.  But  when  Basil  Ransom,  in 
The  Bostonians,  makes  a  brave  fight  for  his 
young  bride,  and  carries  her  off  in  triumph, 
we  are  not  for  a  moment  permitted  to  feel 
elated  at  his  victory.  We  want  to  rejoice 
with  Verena,  and  to  congratulate  her  on  her 
escape  from  Mr.  Filer  and  the  tawdry  music- 


SOME  ASPECTS  OF  PESSIMISM.          189 

hall  celebrity ;  but  we  are  forced  to  take  leave 
of  her  in  tears,  and  to  hear  with  unwilling 
ears  that  "  these  were  not  the  last  she  was  des 
tined  to  shed."  This  hurts  our  best  feelings, 
and  hurts  them  all  the  more  because  we  have 
allowed  our  sympathies  to  be  excited.  It  re 
minds  us  of  that  ill-natured  habit  of  the 
Romans,  who  were  ungrateful  enough  to  spoil 
a  conqueror's  triumph  by  hiring  somebody  to 
stand  in  his  chariot,  and  keep  whispering  in 
his  ear  that  he  was  only  human,  after  all ;  and 
it  speaks  volumes  for  the  stern  self-restraint  of 
the  Roman  nature  that  the  officious  truth-teller 
was  not  promptly  kicked  out  in  the  dust.  In 
the  same  grudging  spirit,  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy, 
after  conducting  one  of  his  heroines  safely 
through  a  great  many  trials,  and  marrying  her 
at  last  to  the  husband  of  her  choice,  winds  up, 
by  way  of  wedding-bells,  with  the  following 
consolatory  reflections  :  "  Her  experience  had 
been  of  a  kind  to  teach  her,  rightly  or  wrong 
ly,  that  the  doubtful  honor  of  a  brief  transit 
through  a  sorry  world  hardly  called  for  effu 
siveness,  even  when  the  path  was  suddenly 
irradiated  at  some  half-way  point  by  day 
dreams  rich  as  hers.  .  .  .  And  in  being  forced 


190  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

to  class  herself  among  the  fortunate,  she  did 
not  cease  to  wonder  at  the  persistence  of  the 
unforeseen,  when  the  one  to  whom  such  un 
broken  tranquillity  had  been  accorded  in  the 
adult  stage  was  she  whose  youth  had  seemed 
to  teach  that  happiness  was  but  the  occasional 
episode  in  a  general  drama  of  pain."  "  What 
should  a  man  do  but  be  merry  ?  "  says  Hamlet 
drearily ;  and,  with  this  reckless  mirth  per 
vading  even  our  novels,  we  bid  fair  in  time  to 
become  as  jocund  as  he. 


THE   CAVALIER. 

"AN  evil  reputation  is  light  to  raise,  but 
heavy  to  bear,  and  very  difficult  to  put  aside. 
No  Rumor  which  many  people  chatter  of  alto 
gether  dieth  away ;  she  too  is,  after  her  kind, 
an  immortal."  So  moralizes  Hesiod  over  an 
exceedingly  thankless  truth,  which,  even  in 
the  primitive  simplicity  of  the  golden  age,  had 
forced  itself  upon  man's  unwilling  convictions  ; 
and  while  many  later  philosophers  have  given 
caustic  expression  to  the  same  thought,  few 
have  clothed  it  with  more  delicate  and  agree 
able  irony.  Rumor  is,  after  her  kind,  an  im 
mortal.  Antaeus-like,  she*  gains  new  strength 
each  time  she  is  driven  to  the  ground,  and  it 
is  a  wholesome  humiliation  for  our  very  en 
lightened  minds  to  see  how  little  she  has  suf 
fered  from  centuries  of  analysis  and  research. 
Rumor  still  writes  our  histories,  directs  our 
diplomacy,  and  controls  our  ethics,  until  we 
have  grown  to  think  that  this  is  probably  what 
is  meant  by  the  vox  populi,  and  that  any 


192  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

absurdity  credited  by  a  great  many  people 
becomes  in  some  mysterious  way  sacred  to  the 
cause  of  humanity,  and  infinitely  more  pre 
cious  than  truth.  When  Wodrow,  and  Walk 
er,  and  the  author  of  The  Cloud  of  Witnesses, 
were  compiling  their  interesting  narratives, 
Rumor,  in  the  person  of  "  ilka  auld  wife  in 
the  chimley-neuck,"  gave  them  all  the  infor 
mation  they  desired;  and  this  information, 
countersigned  by  Macaulay,  has  passed  muster 
for  history  down  to  the  present  day.  As  a 
result,  the  introduction  of  Graham  of  Claver- 
house  into  Mr.  Lang's  list  of  English  Wor 
thies  has  been  received  with  severely  qualified 
approbation,  and  Mr.  Mowbray  Morris  has 
written  the  biography  of  a  great  soldier  in  the 
cautious  tone  of  a  lawyer  pleading  for  a  crimi 
nal  at  the  bar. 

If  ever  the  words  of  Hesiod  stood  in  need  of 
an  accurate  illustration,  it  has  been  furnished 
by  the  memory  of  Claverhouse ;  for  his  evil 
reputation  was  not  only  raised  with  astonish 
ing  facility,  but  it  has  never  been  put  aside  at 
all.  In  fact,  it  seems  to  have  been  a  matter 
of  pride  in  the  grim-visaged  Scottish  saints  to 
believe  that  their  departed  brethren  were,  one 


THE   CAVALIER.  193 

and  all,  the  immediate  victims  of  his  wrath ; 
and  to  hint  that  they  might  perhaps  have 
fallen  by  any  meaner  hand  was,  as  Aytoun 
wittily  expressed  it,  "  an  insult  to  martyrol- 
ogy."  The  terror  inspired  by  his  inflexible 
severity  gave  zest  to  their  lurid  denunciations, 
and  their  liveliest  efforts  of  imagination  were 
devoted  to  conjuring  up  in  his  behalf  some 
fresh  device  of  evil.  In  that  shameless  pas 
quinade,  the  Elegy,  there  is  no  species  of  wick 
edness  that  is  not  freely  charged,  in  most  vile 
language,  to  the  account  of  every  Jacobite  in 
the  land,  from  the  royal  house  of  Stuart  down 
to  its  humblest  supporter;  yet  even  amid  such 
goodly  company,  Claverhouse  stands  preemi 
nent,  and  is  the  recipient  of  its  choicest  flowers 
of  speech. 

"  He  to  Rome's  cause  most  firmly  stood, 
And  drunken  was  with  the  saints'  blood. 
He  rifled  houses,  and  did  plunder 
In  moor  and  dale  many  a  hunder ; 
He  all  the  shires  in  south  and  west 
With  blood  and  rapine  sore  opprest." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  Claverhouse, 
though  he  served  a  Catholic  master,  had  about 
as  much  affinity  for  the  Church  of  Rome  as 
the  great  Gustavus  himself,  and  that  the  ex- 


194  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

tent  of  his  shortcomings  in  this  direction  lay 
in  his  protesting  against  the  insults  offered  by 
a  Selkirk  preacher  to  King  James  through  the 
easy  medium  of  his  religion. 

Now  it  is  only  natural  that  the  Covenanters, 
who  feared  and  hated  Dundee,  should  have 
found  infinite  comfort  in  believing  that  he  was 
under  the  direct  protection  of  Satan.  In  those 
days  of  lively  faith,  the  charge  was  by  no 
means  an  uncommon  one,  and  the  dark  dis 
tinction  was  shared  by  any  number  of  his 
compatriots.  On  the  death  of  Sir  Robert 
Grierson  of  Lag,  the  devil,  who  had  waited 
long  for  his  prey,  manifested  his  sense  of  satis 
faction  by  providing  an  elaborate  funeral  cor 
tege,  which  came  over  the  sea  at  midnight, 
with  nodding  plumes  and  sable  horses,  to  carry 
off  in  ostentatious  splendor  the  soul  of  this 
much-honored  guest.  Prince  Rupert  was  be 
lieved  by  the  Roundheads  to  owe  his  immunity 
from  danger  to  the  same  diabolic  agency  which 
made  Claverhouse  proof  against  leaden  bul 
lets;  and  his  white  dog,  Boy,  was  regarded 
with  as  much  awe  as  was  Dundee's  famous 
black  charger,  the  gift  of  the  evil  one  himself. 
As  a  fact,  Boy  was  not  altogether  unworthy  of 


THE   CAVALIER.  195 

his  reputation,  for  he  could  fight  almost  as 
well  as  his  master,  though  unluckily  without 
sharing  in  his  advantages;  for  the  poor  brute 
was  shot  at  Marston  Moor,  in  the  very  act  of 
pulling  down  a  rebel.  Even  the  clergy,  it 
would  seem,  were  not  wholly  averse  to  Satan's 
valuable  patronage ;  for  Wodrow  —  to  whose 
claims  as  an  historian  Mr.  Morris  is  strangely 
lenient  —  tells  us  gravely  how  the  unfortunate 
Archbishop  of  St.  Andrew's  cowered  trembling 
in  the  Privy  Council,  when  Janet  Douglas, 
then  on  trial  for  witchcraft,  made  bold  to  re 
mind  him  of  the  "  meikle  black  devil "  who 
was  closeted  with  him  the  last  Saturday  at 
midnight. 

But  even  our  delighted  appreciation  of  these 
very  interesting  and  characteristic  legends 
cannot  altogether  blind  us  to  the  dubious 
quality  of  history  based  upon  such  testimony, 
and  it  is  a  little  startling  to  see  that,  as  years 
rolled  by,  the  impression  they  created  remained 
practically  undimmed.  Colonel  Fergusson, 
in  the  preface  to  his  delightful  volume  on  The 
Laird  of  Lag,  confesses  that  in  his  youth  it 
was  still  a  favorite  Halloween  game  to  dress 
up  some  enterprising  member  of  the  household 


196  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

as  a  hideous  beast  with  a  preternaturally  long 
nose,  —  made,  in  fact,  of  a  saucepan  handle  ; 
and  that  this  creature,  who  went  prowling 
stealthily  around  the  dim  halls  and  firelit 
kitchen,  frightening  the  children  into  shrieks 
of  terror,  was  supposed  to  represent  the  stout 
old  cavalier  searching  for  his  ancient  foes  the 
Covenanters.  Lag's  memory  appears  to  have 
been  given  up  by  universal  consent  to  every 
species  of  opprobrium,  and  his  misdeeds  have 
so  far  found  no  apologist,  unless,  indeed, 
Macaulay  may  count  as  one,  when  he  grace 
fully  transfers  part  of  them  to  Claverhouse's 
shoulders.  Mr.  Morris  coldly  mentions  Sir 
Robert  Grierson  as  "  coarse,  cruel,  and  brutal 
beyond  even  the  license  of  those  days ;  "  Col 
onel  Fergusson  is  far  too  clever  to  weaken  the 
dramatic  force  of  his  book  by  hinting  that  his 
hero  was  not  a  great  deal  worse  than  other 
men  ;  and  Scott,  in  that  inimitable  romance, 
Wandering  Willie's  Tale,  has  thrown  a  per 
fect  glamour  of  wickedness  around  the  old 
laird's  name.  Bat  in  truth,  when  we  come  to 
search  for  sober  proven  facts ;  when  we  dis 
card  —  reluctantly,  indeed,  but  under  compul 
sion —  the  spiked  barrel  in  which  he  was 


THE  CAVALIER.  197 

pleased  to  roll  the  Covenanters,  in  Carthagin 
ian  fashion,  down  the  Scottish  hills ;  and  the 
iron  hook  in  his  cellar,  from  which  it  was  his 
playful  fancy  to  depend  them ;  and  the  wine 
which  turned  to  clotted  blood  ere  it  touched 
his  lips  ;  and  the  active  copartnership  of  Satan 
in  his  private  affairs,  —  when  we  lay  aside 
these  picturesque  traditions,  there  is  little  left 
save  a  charge,  not  altogether  uncommon,  of 
indecorum  in  his  cups,  the  ever-vexed  question 
of  the  Wigtown  martyrs,  and  a  few  rebels 
who  were  shot,  like  John  Bell,  after  scant 
trial,  but  who,  Heaven  knows,  would  have 
gained  cold  comfort  by  having  their  cases  laid 
before  the  council.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
might  be  wprth  while  to  mention  that  Lag 
was  brave,  honest,  not  rapacious,  and,  above 
all,  true  to  his  colors  when  the  tide  had  turned, 
and  he  was  left  alone  in  his  old  age  to  suf 
fer  imprisonment  and  disgrace. 

But  if  the  memory  of  a  minor  actor  in  these 
dark  scenes  has  come  down  to  us  so  artistically 
embellished,  what  may  we  not  expect  of  one 
who  played  a  leading  part  through  the  whole 
stormy  drama  ?  "  The  chief  of  this  Tophet 
on  earth,"  is  the  temperate  phrase  applied  to 


198  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

Claverhouse  by  Macaulay,  and  it  sufficiently 
illustrates  the  position  popularly  assigned  him 
by  his  foes.  Rumor  asserted  in  his  behalf  her 
triumphant  immortality,  and  crystallized  into 
tradition  every  floating  charge  urged  by  the 
Covenanters  against  his  fame.  So  potent  and 
far-reaching  was  her  voice  that  it  became  in 
time  a  virtuous  necessity  to  echo  it ;  and  we 
actually  find  Southey  writing  to  Scott  in  1807, 
and  regretting  that  Wordsworth  should  have 
thought  fit  to  introduce  the  Viscount  of  Dun 
dee  into  the  sonnet  on  Killiecrankie,  without 
any  apparent  censure  of  his  conduct.  Scott, 
who  took  a  somewhat  easier  view  of  poetical 
obligations,  and  who  probably  thought  that 
Killiecrankie  was  hardly  the  fitting  spot  on 
which  to  recall  Dundee's  shortcomings,  wrote 
back  very  plainly  that  he  thought  there  had 
been  censure  enough  already  ;  and  nine  years 
later  he  startled  the  good  people  of  Edin 
burgh,  on  his  own  account,  by  the  publica 
tion  of  that  eminently  heterodox  novel,  Old 
Mortality.  Lockwood  tells  us  that  the  theme 
was  suggested  to  Sir  Walter  by  his  friend  Mr. 
Joseph  Train,  who,  when  visiting  at  Abbots- 
ford,  was  much  struck  by  the  solitary  picture 


THE  CAVALIER.  199 

in  the  poet's  library,  a  portrait  of  Graham  of 
Claverhouse. 

"  He  expressed  the  surprise  with  which 
every  one  who  had  known  Dundee  only  in  the 
pages  of  the  Presbyterian  annalists  must  see 
for  the  first  time  that  beautiful  and  melan 
choly  visage,  worthy  of  the  most  pathetic 
dreams  of  romance. '  Scott  replied  that  no 
character  had  been  so  foully  traduced  as  the 
Viscount  of  Dundee  ;  that,  thanks  to  Wodrow, 
Cruikshanks,  and  such  chroniclers,  he  who 
was  every  inch  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman  still 
passed  among  the  Scottish  vulgar  for  a  ruffian 
desperado,  who  rode  a  goblin  horse,  was  proof 
against  shot,  and  in  league  with  the  devil. 

"  '  Might  he  not,'  said  Train,  '  be  made,  in 
good  hands,  the  hero  of  a  national  romance,  as 
interesting  as  any  about  either  Wallace  or 
Prince  Charlie  ? ' 

" '  He  might,'  said  Scott,  *  but  your  western 
zealots  would  require  to  be  faithfully  por 
trayed  in  order  to  bring  him  out  with  the 
right  effect.'  " 

Train  then  described  to  Sir  Walter  the  sin 
gular  character  of  Old  Mortality,  and  the  re 
sult  was  that  incomparable  tale  which  took 


200  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

the  English  reading  world  by  storm,  and  pro 
voked  in  Scotland  a  curious  fever  of  excite 
ment,  indignation,  and  applause.  The  most 
vigorous  protest  against  its  laxity  came  from 
Thomas  MacCrie,  one  of  the  numerous  biog 
raphers  of  John  Knox,  *'  who  considered  the 
representation  of  the  Covenanters  in  the  story 
of  Old  Mortality  as  so  unfair  as  to  demand,  at 
his  hands,  a  very  serious  rebuke."  This  re- 
buk*e  was  administered  at  some  length  in  a 
series  of  papers  published  in  the  Edinburgh 
Christian  Instructor.  Scott,  the  "  Black  Hus 
sar  of  Literature,"  replied  with  much  zest  and 
spirit  in  the  Quarterly  Review ;  cudgels  were 
taken  up  on  both  sides,  and  the  war  went 
briskly  on,  until  Jeffrey  the  Great  in  some 
measure  silenced  the  controversy  by  giving  it 
as  his  ultimatum  that  the  treatment  of  an  his 
torical  character  in  a  work  of  pure  fiction  was  a 
matter  of  very  trifling  significance.  It  is  not 
without  interest  that  we  see  the  same  queru 
lous  virtue  that  winced  under  Sir  Walter's 
frank  enthusiasm  for  Claverhouse  uttering  its 
protest  to-day  against  the  more  chilly  and 
scrupulous  vindications  of  Mr.  Morris's  biog 
raphy.  "An  apology  for  the  crimes  of  a  hired 


THE   CAVALIER.  201 

butcher,"  one  critic  angrily  calls  the  sober  lit 
tle  volume,  forgetting  in  his  heat  that  the  term 
"  hired  butcher,"  though  most  scathing  in  sound, 
is  equally  applicable  to  any  soldier,  from  the 
highest  to  the  lowest,  who  is  paid  by  his  gov 
ernment  to  kill  his  fellow-men.  War  is  a 
rough  trade,  and  if  we  choose  to  call  names, 
it  is  as  easy  any  time  to  say  "  butcher "  as 
"hero."  Stronger  words  have  not  been  lack 
ing  to  vilify  Dundee,  and  many  of  these  choice 
anathemas  belong,  one  fears,  to  Luther's  cata 
logue  of  "  downright,  infamous,  scandalous 
lies."  Their  freshness,  however,  is  as  amazing 
as  their  ubiquity,  and  they  confront  us  every 
now  and  then  in  the  most  forlorn  nooks  and 
crannies  of  literature.  Not  very  long  ago  I 
was  shut  up  for  half  an  hour  in  a  boarding- 
house  parlor,  in  company  with  a  solitary  little 
book  entitled  Scheyichbi  and  the  Strand,  or 
Early  Days  along  the  Delaware.  Its  name 
proved  to  be  the  only  really  attractive  thing 
about  it,  and  I  was  speculating  drearily  as  to 
whether  Charles  Lamb  himself  could  have  ex 
tracted  any  amusement  from  its  pages,  when 
suddenly  my  eye  lighted  on  a  sentence  that 
read  like  an  old  familiar  friend :  "  The  cru- 


202  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

elty,  the  brutality,  the  mad,  exterminating 
barbarity  of  Claverhouse,  and  Lauderdale, 
and  Jeffreys,  the  minions  of  episcopacy  and 
the  king."  There  it  stood,  venerably  correct 
in  sentiment,  with  a  strangely  new  location 
and  surroundings.  It  is  hard  enough,  surely, 
to  see  Claverhouse  pilloried  side  by  side  with 
the  brute  Jeffreys ;  but  to  meet  him  on  the 
banks  of  the  Delaware  is  like  encountering 
Ezzelin  Romano  on  Fifth  Avenue,  or  Julian 
the  Apostate  upon  Boston  Common. 

Much  of  this  universal  harmony  of  abuse 
may  be  fairly  charged  to  Macaulay,  for  it  is 
he  who  in  a  few  strongly  written  passages  has 
presented  to  the  general  reader  that  remark 
able  compendium  of  wickedness  commonly 
known  as  Dundee.  "  Rapacious  and  profane, 
of  violent  temper  and  obdurate  heart,"  is  the 
great  historian's  description  of  a  man  who 
sought  but  modest  wealth,  who  never  swore, 
and  whose  imperturbable  gentleness  of  manner 
was  more  appalling  in  its  way  than  the  fiercest 
transports  of  rage.  Under  Macaulay's  hands 
Claverhouse  exhibits  a  degree  of  ubiquity  and 
mutability  that  might  well  require  some  su 
pernatural  basis  to  sustain  it.  He  supports  as 


THE  CAVALIER.  203 

many  characters  as  Saladin  in  the  Talisman  ; 
appearing  now  as  his  brother  David  Graham, 
in  order  to  witness  the  trial  of  the  Wigtown 
martyrs,  and  now  as  his  distant  kinsman,  Pat 
rick  Graham,  when  it  becomes  expedient  to 
figure  as  a  dramatic  feature  of  Argyle's  execu 
tion.  He  changes  at  will  into  Sir  Robert  Gri- 
erson,  and  is  thus  made  responsible  for  that 
highly  curious  game  which  Wodrow  and 
Howie  impute  to  Lag's  troopers,  and  which 
Macaulay  describes  with  as  much  gravity  as 
if  it  were  the  sacking  and  pillage  of  some 
doomed  Roman  town.  It  is  hard  to  under 
stand  the  precise  degree  of  pleasure  embodied 
in  calling  one's  self  Apollyon  and  one's  neigh 
bor  Beelzebub ;  it  is  harder  still  to  be  properly 
impressed  with  the  tremendous  significance 
of  the  deed.  I  have  known  a  bevy  of  school 
girls,  who,  after  an  exhaustive  course  of  Para 
dise  Lost,  were  so  deeply  imbued  with  the 
sombre  glories  of  the  satanic  court  that  they 
assumed  the  names  of  its  inhabitants ;  and, 
for  the  remainder  of  that  term,  even  the  myste 
rious  little  notes  that  form  so  important  an  el 
ement  of  boarding-school  life  began —  heedless 
of  grammar  —  with  "Chere  Moloch,"  and 


204  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

ended  effusively  with  "  Your  ever-devoted  Be- 
liaL"  It  is  quite  possible  that  these  children 
thought  and  hoped  they  were  doing  something 
desperately  wicked,  only  they  lacked  a  histo 
rian  to  chronicle  their  guilt.  It  is  equally  cer 
tain  that  Lag's  drunken  troopers,  if  they  ever 
did  divert  themselves  in  the  unbecoming  man 
ner  ascribed  to  them,  might  have  been  more 
profitably,  and,  it  would  seem,  more  agreeably, 
employed.  But,  of  one  thing,  at  least,  we  may 
feel  tolerably  confident.  The  pastime  would 
have  found  scant  favor  in  the  eyes  of  Claver- 
house,  who  was  a  man  of  little  imagination,  of 
stern  discipline,  and  of  fastidiously  decorous 
habits.  Why,  even  Wandering  Willie  does 
him  this  much  justice,  when  he  describes  him 
as  alone  amid  the  lost  souls,  isolated  in  his 
contemptuous  pride  from  their  feasts  and 
dreadful  merriment :  "  And  there  sat  Claver- 
house,  as  beautiful  as  when  he  lived,  with  his 
long,  dark,  curled  locks  streaming  down  over 
his  laced  buff-coat,  and  his  left  hand  always 
on  his  right  spule-blade,  to  hide  the  wound  that 
the  silver  bullet  had  made.  He  sat  apart 
from  them  all,  and  looked  at  them  with  a  mel 
ancholy,  haughty  countenance."  If  history 


THE  CAVALIER.  205 

be,  as  Napoleon  asserts,  nothing  but  fiction 
agreed  upon,  let  us  go  straight  to  the  fountain- 
head,  and  enjoy  our  draught  of  romance  un 
spoiled  by  any  dubious  taint  of  veracity. 

Mr.  Walter  Bagehot,  that  most  keen  and 
tolerant  of  critics,  has  pointed  out  to  us  with 
his  customary  acumen  that  Macaulay  never 
appreciated  in  the  highest  degree  either  of  the 
two  great  parties  —  the  Puritans  and  the  Cav 
aliers —  who  through  so  many  stirring  events 
embodied  all  the  life  and  color  of  English  his 
tory.  In  regard  to  the  former,  it  may  be 
safely  said  that  whatever  slights  they  have 
received  at  the  hands  of  other  historians  have 
been  amply  atoned  for  by  Carlyle.  He  has 
thrown  the  whole  weight  of  his  powerful  per 
sonality  into  their  scale,  and  has  fairly  fright 
ened  us  into  that  earnestness  of  mind  which  is 
requisite  for  a  due  appreciation  of  their  merits. 
His  fine  scorn  for  the  pleasant  vices  which 
ensnare  humanity  extended  itself  occasionally 
to  things  which  are  pleasant  without  being 
vicious ;  and  under  his  leadership  we  hardly 
venture  to  hint  at  a  certain  sneaking  prefer 
ence  for  the  gayer  side  of  life.  When  Hazlitt, 
with  a  shameless  audacity  rare  among  English- 


206  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

men,  disencumbers  himself  lightly  of  his  con 
science,  and  apostrophizes  the  reign  of  Charles 
II.  as  that  "happy,  thoughtless  age,  when 
king  and  nobles  led  purely  ornamental  lives," 
we  feel  our  flesh  chilled  at  such  a  candid 
avowal  of  volatility.  Surely  Hazlitt  must  have 
understood  that  it  is  precisely  the  fatal  pic- 
turesqueness  of  that  period  to  which  we,  as 
moralists,  so  strenuously  object.  The  courts 
of  the  first  two  Hanoverians  were  but  little 
better  or  purer,  but  they  were  at  least  uglier, 
and  we  can  afford  to  look  with  some  leniency 
upon  their  short-comings.  His  sacred  majesty 
George  II.  was  hardly,  save  in  the  charitable 
eyes  of  Bishop  Porteus,  a  shining  example  of 
rectitude  ;  but  let  us  rejoice  that  it  never  lay 
in  the  power  of  any  human  being  to  hint  that 
he  was  in  the  smallest  degree  ornamental. 

The  Puritan,  then,  has  been  wafted  into 
universal  esteem  by  the  breath  of  his  great 
eulogist ;  but  the  Cavalier  still  waits  for  his 
historian.  Poets  and  painters  and  romancers 
have  indeed  loved  to  linger  over  this  warm, 
impetuous  life,  so  rich  in  vigor  and  beauty,  so 
full  to  the  brim  of  a  hardy  adventurous  joy. 
Here,  they  seem  to  say,  far  more  than  in 


THE   CAVALIER.  207 

ancient  Greece,  may  be  realized  the  throbbing 
intensity  of  an  unreflecting  happiness.  For 
the  Greek  drank  deeply  of  the  cup  of  know 
ledge,  and  its  bitterness  turned  his  laughter 
into  tears  ;  the  Cavalier  looked  straight  into 
the  sunlight  with  clear,  joyous  eyes,  and 
troubled  himself  not  at  all  with  the  disheart 
ening  problems  of  humanity.  How  could  a 
mind  like  Macaulay's,  logical,  disciplined,  and 
gravely  intolerant,  sympathize  for  a  moment 
with  this  utterly  irresponsible  buoyancy ! 
How  was  he,  of  all  men,  to  understand  this 
careless  zest  for  the  old  feast  of  life,  this  un 
reasoning  loyalty  to  an  indifferent  sovereign, 
this  passionate  devotion  to  a  church  and  easy 
disregard  of  her  precepts,  this  magnificent 
wanton  courage,  this  gay  prodigality  of  enjoy 
ment  !  It  was  his  loss,  no  less  than  ours,  that, 
in  turning  over  the  pages  of  the  past,  he  should 
miss  half  of  their  beauty  and  their  pathos  ;  for 
History,  that  calumniated  muse,  whose  sworn 
votaries  do  her  little  honor,  has  illuminated 
every  inch  of  her  parchment  with  a  strong, 
generous  hand,  and  does  not  mean  that  we 
should  contemptuously  ignore  the  smallest 
fragment  of  her  work.  The  superb  charge  of 


208  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

Rupert's  cavalry ;  that  impetuous  rush  to 
battle,  before  which  no  mortal  ranks  might 
stand  unbroken  ;  the  little  group  of  heart-sick 
Cavaliers  who  turned  at  sunset  from  the  lost 
field  of  Marston  Moor,  and  beheld  their 
queen's  white  standard  floating  over  the  ene 
my's  ranks ;  the  scaffolds  of  Montrose  and 
King  Charles ;  the  more  glorious  death  of 
Claverhouse,  pressing  the  blood-stained  grass, 
and  listening  for  the  last  time  to  the  far-off 
cries  of  victory  ;  Sidney  Godolphin  flinging 
away  his  life,  with  all  its  abundant  promise 
and  whispered  hopes  of  fame  ;  beautiful  Fran 
cis  Villiers  lying  stabbed  to  the  heart  in  Sur- 
biton  lane,  with  his  fair  boyish  face  turned  to 
the  reddening  sky,  —  these  and  many  other 
pictures  History  has  painted  for  us  on  her 
scroll,  bidding  us  forget  for  a  moment  our  for 
midable  theories  and  strenuous  partisanship, 
and  suffer  our  hearts  to  be  simply  and  whole 
somely  stirred  by  the  brave  lives  and  braver 
deaths  of  our  mistaken  brother  men. 

"  Every  matter,"  observes  Epictetus,  "  has 
two  handles  by  which  it  may  be  grasped ; "  and 
the  Cavalier  is  no  exception  to  the  rule.  We 
may,  if  we  choose,  regard  him  from  a  purely 


THE   CAVALIER.  209 

moral  point  of  view,  as  a  lamentably  dissolute 
and  profligate  courtier ;  or  from  a  purely  pic 
turesque  point  of  view,  as  a  gallant  and  loyal 
soldier;  or  we  may,  if  we  are  wise,  take  him 
as  he  stands,  making  room  for  him  cheerfully 
as  a  fellow-creature,  and  not  vexing  our  souls 
too  deeply  over  his  brilliant  divergence  from 
our  present  standard.  It  is  like  a  breath  of 
fresh  air  blown  from  a  roughening  sea  to  feel, 
even  at  this  distance  of  time,  that  strong 
young  life  beating  joyously  and  eagerly  against 
the  barriers  of  the  past ;  to  see  those  curled 
and  scented  aristocrats  who,  like  the  "  dandies 
of  the  Crimea,"  could  fight  as  well  as  dance, 
facing  pleasure  and  death,  the  ball-room  and 
the  battle-field,  with  the  same  smiling  front, 
the  same  unflagging  enthusiasm.  No  wonder 
that  Mr.  Bagehot,  analyzing  with  friendly 
sympathy  the  strength  and  weakness  of  the 
Cavalier,  should  find  himself  somewhat  out  of 
temper  with  an  historian's  insensibility  to  vir 
tues  so  primitive  and  recognizable  in  a  not  too 
merry  world. 

"  The  greatness  of  this  character  is  not  in 
Macaulay's  way,  and  its  faults  are.  Its  license 
affronts  him,  its  riot  alienates  him.  He  is  for- 


210  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

ever  contrasting  the  dissoluteness  of  Prince 
Rupert's  horse  with  the  restraint  of  Crom 
well's  pikemen.  A  deep,  enjoying  nature 
finds  in  him  no  sympathy.  He  has  no  tears 
for  that  warm  life,  no  tenderness  for  that 
extinct  mirth.  The  ignorance  of  the  Cava 
liers,  too,  moves  his  wrath :  '  They  were  igno 
rant  of  what  every  schoolgirl  knows.'  Their 
loyalty  to  their  sovereign  is  the  devotion  of  the 
Egyptians  to  the  god  Apis  :  '  They  selected  a 
calf  to  adore.'  Their  non-resistance  offends 
the  philosopher ;  their  license  is  commented 
on  in  the  tone  of  a  precisian.  Their  indeco 
rum  does  not  suit  the  dignity  of  the  narrator. 
Their  rich,  free  nature  is  unappreciated  ;  the 
tingling  intensity  of  their  joy  is  unnoticed.  In 
a  word,  there  is  something  of  the  schoolboy 
about  the  Cavalier;  there  is  somewhat  of  a 
schoolmaster  about  the  historian."  1 

That  the  gay  gentlemen  who  glittered  in 
the  courts  of  the  Stuarts  were  enviably  igno 
rant  of  much  that,for  some  inscrutable  reason, 
we  feel  ourselves  obliged  to  know  to-day  may 
be  safely  granted,  and  scored  at  once  to  the 
account  of  their  good  fortune.  It  is  probable 
1  Literary  Studies,  vol.  ii. 


THE    CAVALIER.  211 

that  they  had  only  the  vaguest  notions  about 
Sesostris,  and  could  not  have  defined  an  hy 
pothesis  of  homophones  with  any  reasonable 
degree  of  accuracy.  But  they  were  possessed, 
nevertheless,  of  a  certain  information  of  their 
own,  not  garnered  from  books,  and  not  always 
attainable  to  their  critics.  They  knew  life  in 
its  varying  phases,  from  the  delicious  trifling 
of  a  polished  and  witty  society  to  the  stern 
realities  of  the  camp  and  battle-field.  They 
knew  the  world,  women,  and  song,  three  things 
as  pleasant  and  as  profitable  in  their  way  as 
Hebrew,  Euclid,  and  political  economy.  They 
knew  how  to  live  gracefully,  to  fight  stoutly, 
and  to  die  honorably ;  and  how  to  extract 
from  the  gray  routine  of  existence  a  wonder 
fully  distinct  flavor  of  novelty  and  enjoyment. 
There  were  among  them,  as  among  the  Puri 
tans,  true  lovers,  faithful  husbands,  and  tender 
fathers  ;  and  the  indiscriminate  charge  of  dis 
soluteness  on  the  one  side,  like  the  indiscrimi 
nate  charge  of  hypocrisy  on  the  other,  is  a 
cheap  expression  of  our  individual  intolerance. 
The  history  of  the  Cavalier  closes  with 
Killiecrankie.  The  waning  prestige  of  a  once 
powerful  influence  concentrated  itself  in  Cla- 


212  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

verhouse,  the  latest  and  strongest  figure  on  its 
canvas,  the  accepted  type  of  its  most  brilliant 
and  defiant  qualities.  Readers  of  old-fash 
ioned  novels  may  remember  a  lachrymose 
story,  in  two  closely  printed  volumes,  which 
enjoyed  an  amazing  popularity  some  twenty 
years  ago,  and  which  was  called  The  Last  of 
the  Cavaliers.  It  had  for  its  hero  a  perfectly 
impossible  combination  of  virtues,  a  cross  be 
tween  the  Chevalier  Bayard  and  the  Admir 
able  Crichton,  labeled  Dundee,  and  warranted 
proof  against  all  the  faults  and  foibles  of 
humanity.  This  automaton,  who  moved  in  a 
rarefied  atmosphere  through  the  whole  dreary 
tale,  performing  noble  deeds  and  uttering  vir 
tuous  sentiments  with  monotonous  persistency, 
embodied,  we  may  presume,  the  author's  con 
ception  of  a  character  not  generally  credited 
with  such  superfluous  excellence.  It  was  a 
fine  specimen  of  imaginative  treatment,  and 
not  wholly  unlike  some  very  popular  historic 
methods  by  which  similar  results  are  reached 
to-day.  Quite  recently,  a  despairing  English 
critic,  with  an  ungratified  taste  for  realities, 
complained  somewhat  savagely  that  "  a  more 
intolerable  embodiment  of  unrelieved  excel- 


THE  CAVALIER.  213 

lence  and  monotonous  success  than  the  hero 
of  the  pious  Gladstoniau's  worship  was  never 
moulded  out  of  plaster  of  Paris."  He  was 
willing  enough  to  yield  his  full  share  of  admi 
ration,  but  he  wanted  to  see  the  real,  human, 
interesting  Gladstone  back  of  all  this  conven 
tional  and  disheartening  mock-heroism  ;  and, 
in  the  same  spirit,  we  would  like  sometimes  to 
see  the  real  Claverhouse  back  of  all  the  dra 
matic  accessories  in  which  he  has  been  so  lib 
erally  disguised. 

But  where,  save  perhaps  in  the  ever-delight 
ful  pages  of  Old  Mortality,  shall  we  derive 
any  moderate  gratification  from  our  search  ? 
Friends  are  apt  to  be  as  ill  advised  as  foes, 
and  Dundee's  eulogists,  from  Napier  to 
Aytoun,  have  been  distinguished  rather  for 
the  excellence  of  their  intentions  than  for  any 
great  felicity  of  execution.  The  "  lion-hearted 
warrior,"  for  whom  Aytoun  flings  wide  the 
gates  of  Athol,  might  be  Cceur-de-Lion  him 
self,  or  Marshal  Ney,  or  Stonewall  Jackson, 
or  any  other  brave  fighter.  There  is  no  dis 
tinctive  flavor  of  the  Graeme  in  the  somewhat 
long-winded  hero,  with  his  "  falcon  eye,"  and 
his  "  war-horse  black  as  night,"  and  his  trite 


214  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

commonplaces  about  foreign  gold  and  High 
land  honor.  On  the  other  hand,  the  verdict 
of  the  disaffected  may  be  summed  up  in  the 
extraordinary  lines  with  which  Macaulay 
closes  his  account  of  Killiecrankie,  and  of 
Dundee's  brief,  glorious  struggle  for  his  king : 
"  During  the  last  three  months  of  his  life  he 
had  proved  himself  a  great  warrior  and  poli 
tician,  and  his  name  is  therefore  mentioned 
with  respect  by  that  large  class  of  persons  who 
think  that  there  is  no  excess  of  wickedness  for 
which  courage  and  ability  do  not  atone."  No 
excess  of  wickedness !  One  wonders  what 
more  could  be  said  if  we  were  discussing 
Tiberius  or  Caligula,  or  if  colder  words  were 
ever  used  to  chill  a  soldier's  fame.  Mr.  Mow- 
bray  Morris,  the  latest  historian  in  the  field, 
seems  divided  between  a  natural  desire  to  sift 
the  evidence  for  all  this  wickedness  and  a 
polite  disinclination  to  say  anything  rude  dur 
ing  the  process,  "  a  common  impertinence  of 
the  day,"  in  which  he  declares  he  has  no  wish 
to  join.  This  is  exceedingly  pleasant  and 
courteous,  though  hardly  of  primary  impor 
tance  ;  for  a  biographer's  sole  duty  is,  after 
all,  to  the  subject  of  his  biography,  and  not 


THE    CAVALIER.  215 

to  Macaulay,  who  can  hold  his  own  easily 
enough  without  any  assistance  whatever. 
When  Sir  James  Stephens  published,  some 
years  ago,  his  very  earnest  and  accurate  vindi 
cation  of  Sir  Elijah  Impey  from  the  charges 
so  lavishly  brought  against  him  in  that  match 
less  essay  on  Warren  Hastings,  he  expressed 
at  the  same  time  his  serene  conviction  that  the 
great  world  would  go  on  reading  the  essay  and 
believing  the  charges  just  the  same,  —  a  new 
rendering  of  "  Magna  est  veritas  et  praevale- 
bit,"  which  brings  it  very  near  to  Hesiod's 
primitive  experience. 

As  for  Mr.  Morris's  book,  it  is  a  carefully 
dispassionate  study  of  a  wild  and  stormy  time, 
with  a  gray  shadow  of  Claverhouse  flitting 
faintly  through  it.  In  his  wholesome  dislike 
for  the  easy  confidence  with  which  historians 
assume  to  know  everything,  its  author  has 
touched  the  opposite  extreme,  and  manifests 
such  conscientious  indecision  as  to  the  correct 
ness  of  every  document  he  quotes,  that  our 
heads  fairly  swim  with  accumulated  uncer 
tainties.  This  method  of  narration  has  one 
distinct  advantage,  —  it  cannot  lead  us  far 
into  error ;  but  neither  can  it  carry  us  for- 


216  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

ward  impetuously  with  the  mighty  rush  of 
great  events,  and  make  us  feel  in  our  hearts 
the  real  and  vital  qualities  of  history.  Mr. 
Morris  proves  very  clearly  and  succinctly  that 
Claverhouse  has  been,  to  use  his  temperate 
expression,  "  harshly  judged,"  and  that  much 
of  the  cruelty  assigned  to  hirn  may  be  easily 
and  cheaply  refuted.  He  does  full  justice  to 
the  scrupulous  decorum  of  his  hero's  private 
life,  and  to  the  wonderful  skill  with  which, 
after  James's  flight,  he  roused  and  held 
together  the  turbulent  Highland  clans,  impress 
ing  even  these  rugged  spirits  with  the  charm 
and  force  of  his  vigorous  personality.  In  the 
field  Claverhouse  lived  like  the  meanest  of  his 
men ;  sharing  their  poor  food  and  hard  lodg 
ings,  marching  by  their  side  through  the  bitter 
winter  weather,  and  astonishing  these  hardy 
mountaineers  by  a  power  of  physical  endur 
ance  fully  equal  to  their  own.  The  memory 
of  his  brilliant  courage,  of  his  gracious  tact, 
even  of  his  rare  personal  beauty,  dwelt  with 
them  for  generations,  and  found  passionate 
expression  in  that  cry  wrung  from  the  sore 
heart  of  the  old  chieftain  at  Culloden,  "  Oh, 
for  one  hour  of  Dundee  ! " 


THE   CAVALIER.  217 

But  in  the  earlier  portions  of  Mr.  Morris's 
narrative,  in  the  scenes  at  Drumclog  and  Both- 
well  Bridge,  at  Ayrshire  and  Clydesdale,  we 
confess  that  we  look  in  vain  for  the  Claver- 
house  of  our  fancy.  Can  it  be  that  this  ener 
getic,  modest,  and  rather  estimable  young  sol 
dier,  distinguished,  apparently,  for  nothing 
save  prompt  and  accurate  obedience  to  his 
orders,  is  the  man  who,  in  a  few  short  years, 
made  himself  so  feared  and  hated  that  it  be 
came  necessary  to  credit  him  with  the  direct 
patronage  of  Satan  ?  One  is  tempted  to  quote 
Mr.  Swinburne's  pregnant  lines  concerning 
another  enigmatic  character  of  Scottish  his 
tory  :  — 

"  Some  faults  the  gods  will  give  to  fetter 
Man's  highest  intent, 
But  surely  you  were  something  better 
Than  innocent." 

Of  the  real  Dundee  we  catch  only  flying 
glimpses  here  and  there,  —  on  his  wedding 
night,  for  instance,  when  he  is  off  and  away 
after  the  now  daring  rebels,  leaving  his  bride 
of  an  hour  to  weep  his  absence,  and  listen  with 
what  patience  she  might  to  her  mother's  assid 
uous  reproaches.  "  I  shall  be  revenged  some 


218  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

time  or  other  of  the  unseasonable  trouble  these 
dogs  give  me,"  grumbles  the  young  husband 
with  pardonable  irritation.  "They  might 
have  let  Tuesday  pass."  It  is  the  real  Dun 
dee,  likewise,  who,  in  the  gray  of  early  morn 
ing,  rides  briskly  out  of  Edinburgh  in  scant 
time  to  save  his  neck,  scrambles  up  the  castle 
rock  for  a  last  farewell  to  Gordon,  and  is  off 
to  the  north  to  raise  the  standard  of  King 
James,  "  wherever  the  spirit  of  Montrose  shall 
direct  me."  In  vain  Hamilton  and  the  con 
vention  send  word  imperatively,  "  Dilly,  dilly, 
dilly,  come  and  be  killed."  The  wily  bird 
declines  the  invitation,  and  has  been  censured 
with  some  asperity  for  his  unpatriotic  reluc 
tance  to  comply.  For  one  short  week  of  rest 
he  lingers  at  Dudhope,  where  his  wife  is  await 
ing  her  confinement,  and  then  flies  further 
northward  to  Glen  Ogilvy,  whither  a  regiment 
is  quickly  sent  to  apprehend  him.  There  is  a 
reward  of  twenty  thousand  pounds  sterling  on 
his  head,  but  he  who  thinks  to  win  it  must 
move,  like  Hodr,  with  his  feet  shod  in  silence. 
By  the  time  Livingstone  and  his  dragoons 
reach  Glamis,  Dundee  is  far  in  the  Highlands, 
and  henceforth  all  the  fast-darkening  hopes  of 


THE    CAVALIER.  219 

the  loyalists  are  centred  in  him  alone.  For 
him  remain  thirteen  months  of  incredible  hard 
ships  and  anxiety,  a  single  stolen  visit  to  his 
wife  and  infant  son,  heart-sick  appeals  to 
James  for  some  recognition  of  the  desperate 
efforts  made  in  his  behalf,  a  brilliant  irregu 
lar  campaign,  a  last  decisive  victory,  and  a 
soldier's  death.  "  It  is  the  less  matter  for  me, 
seeing  the  day  goes  well  for  my  master,"  he 
answers  simply,  when  told  of  his  mortal  hurt ; 
and  in  this  unfaltering  loyalty  we  read  the 
life-long  lesson  of  the  Cavalier.  If,  as  a  recent 
poet  tells  us,  the  memory  of  Nero  be  not 
wholly  vile,  because  one  human  being  was 
found  to  weep  for  him,  surely  the  memory  of 
James  Stuart  may  be  forgiven  much  because 
of  this  faithful  service.  It  is  hard  to  under 
stand  it  now. 

"  In  God's  name,  then,  what  plague  befell  as, 
To  fight  for  such  a  thing  ?  " 

is  our  modern  way  of  looking  at  the  problem ; 
but  the  mental  processes  of  the  Cavalier  were 
less  inquisitorial  and  analytic.  "I  am  no 
politician,  and  I  do  not  care  about  nice  distinc 
tions,"  says  Major  Bellenden  bluntly,  when 
requested  to  consider  the  insurgents'  side  of 


220  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

the  case.  "  My  sword  is  the  king's,  and  when 
he  commands,  I  draw  it  in  his  service." 

As  for  that  other  and  better  known  Claver- 
house,  the  determined  foe  of  the  Covenant, 
the  unrelenting  and  merciless  punisher  of  a 
disobedient  peasantry,  he,  too,  is  best  taken  as 
he  stands ;  shorn,  indeed,  of  Wodrow's  extrav 
agant  embellishments,  but  equally  free  from 
the  delicate  gloss  of  a  too  liberal  absolution. 
He  was  a  soldier  acting  under  the  stringent 
orders  of  an  angry  government,  and  he  carried 
out  the  harsh  measures  entrusted  to  him  with 
a  stern  and  impartial  severity.  Those  were 
turbulent  times,  and  the  wild  western  Whigs 
had  given  decisive  proof  on  more  than  one 
occasion  that  they  were  ill  disposed  to  figure 
as  mere  passive  martyrs  to  their  cause. 

"  For  treason,  d'  ye  see, 
Was  to  them  a  dish  of  tea, 
And  murder,  bread  and  butter." 

They  were  stout  fighters,  too,  taking  as  kindly 
to  their  carnal  as  to  their  spiritual  weapons, 
and  a  warfare  against  them  was  as  ingloriously 
dangerous  as  the  melancholy  skirmishes  of  our 
own  army  with  the  Indians,  who,  it  would 
seem,  were  driven  to  the  war-path  by  a  some- 


THE  CAVALIER.  221 

what  similar  mode  of  treatment.  There  is  not 
the  slightest  evidence,  however,  that  Claver- 
house  was  averse  either  to  the  danger  or  the 
cruelty  of  the  work  he  was  given  to  do.  Re 
ligious  toleration  was  then  an  unknown  quan 
tity.  The  Church  of  England  and  her  Pres 
byterian  neighbor  persecuted  each  other  with 
friendly  assiduity,  while  Rome  was  more  than 
willing,  should  an  opportunity  offer,  to  lay  a 
chastening  hand  on  both.  If  there  were  any 
new-fangled  notions  in  the  air  about  private 
judgment  and  the  rights  of  conscience,  Claver- 
house  was  the  last  man  in  England  to  have 
been  a  pioneer  in  such  a  movement.  He  was 
passionately  attached  to  his  church,  unreserv 
edly  loyal  to  his  king,  and  as  indifferent  as 
Hamlet  to  his  own  life  and  the  lives  of  other 
people.  It  is  strange  to  hear  Mr.  Morris  ex 
cuse  him  for  his  share  in  the  death  of  the  lad 
Hyslop,  by  urging  in  his  behalf  a  Pilate-like 
disinclination  to  quarrel  with  a  powerful  ally, 
and  risk  a  censure  from  court.  Never  was 
there  a  man  who  brooked  opposition  as  impa 
tiently,  when  he  felt  that  his  interests  or  his 
principles  were  at  stake ;  but  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  the  shooting  of  a  Covenanter  more  or  less 


222  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

was  hardly,  in  his  eyes,  a  matter  of  vital  im 
portance.  This  attitude  of  unconcern  is  amply 
illustrated  in  the  letter  written  by  Claverhouse 
to  Queensberry  after  the  execution  of  John 
Brown,  "the  Christian  carrier,"  for  the  sole 
crime  of  absenting  himself  from  the  public 
worship  of  the  Episcopalians,  says  Macaulay  ; 
for  outlawry  and  resetting  of  rebels,  hint  less 
impassioned  historians.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
however,  John  Brown  was  shot  in  the  Plough- 
lands  ;  and  his  nephew,  seeing  the  soldiers' 
muskets  leveled  next  at  him,  consented,  on  the 
promise  of  being  recommended  for  mercy,  to 
make  "  an  ingenuous  confession,"  and  give 
evidence  against  his  uncle's  associates.  Ac 
cordingly,  we  find  Claverhouse  detailing  these 
facts  to  Queensberry,  and  adding  in  the  most 
purely  neutral  spirit,  — 

"  I  have  acquitted  myself  when  I  have  told 
your  Grace  the  case.  He  [the  nephew]  has 
been  but  a  month  or  two  with  his  halbert ;  and 
if  your  Grace  thinks  he  deserves  no  mercy, 
justice  will  pass  on  him;  for  I,  having  no 
commission  of  justiciary  myself,  have  delivered 
him  up  to  the  lieutenant-general,  to  be  disposed 
of  as  he  pleases." 


THE  CAVALIER.  223 

Here,  at  least,  is  a  sufficiently  candid  expo 
sition  of  Claverhouse's  habitual  temper.  He 
was,  in  no  sense  of  the  word,  bloodthirsty.  The 
test  oath  was  not  of  his  contriving ;  the  pen 
alty  for  its  refusal  was  not  of  his  appointing. 
He  was  willing  enough  to  give  his  prisoner  the 
promised  chance  for  life ;  but  as  for  any  real 
solicitude  in  the  matter,  you  might  as  well  ex 
pect  Hamlet  to  be  solicitous  because,  by  an 
awkward  misapprehension,  a  foolish  and  inno 
cent  old  man  has  been  stabbed  like  a  rat 
behind  the  arras. 

When  Plutarch  was  asked  why  he  did  not 
oftener  select  virtuous  characters  to  write 
about,  he  intimated  that  he  found  the  sinners 
more  interesting ;  and  while  his  judgment  is 
to  be  deprecated,  it  can  hardly  be  belied.  We 
revere  Marcus  Aurelius,  but  we  delight  in 
Caesar;  we  admire  Sir  Robert  Peel,  but  we 
enjoy  Richelieu ;  we  praise  Wellington,  but 
we  never  weary  of  Napoleon.  "  Our  being," 
says  Montaigne,  "  is  cemented  with  sickly 
qualities ;  and  whoever  should  divest  man  of 
the  seeds  of  those  qualities  would  destroy  the 
fundamental  conditions  of  human  life."  It  is 
idle  to  look  to  Claverhouse  for  precisely  the 


224  BOOKS  AND  MEN. 

virtues  which  we  most  esteem  in  John  How 
ard  ;  but  we  need  not,  on  that  account,  turn 
our  eyes  reproachfully  from  one  of  the  most 
striking  and  characteristic  figures  in  English 
history.  He  was  not  merely  a  picturesque 
feature  of  his  cause,  like  Rupert  of  the  Rhine, 
nor  a  martyr  to  its  fallen  hopes,  like  the  Mar 
quis  of  Montrose ;  he  was  its  single  chance, 
and,  with  his  death,  it  died.  In  versatility  and 
daring,  in  diplomatic  shrewdness  and  military 
acumen,  he  far  outranked  any  soldier  of  his 
day.  "  The  charm  of  an  engaging  person 
ality,"  says  a  recent  critic,  "belongs  to  Mon 
trose,  and  the  pity  of  his  death  deepens  the 
romance  of  his  life ;  but  the  strong  man  was 
Dundee." 


DATE  DUE 


3  1970  00205  7609 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL 

000273669 


